


Freedom Ain't Fuckin' Free

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And I don't remember what else so enter at your own risk, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Marine Mickey Milkovich, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War related PTSD, service dog, war related violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 60,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: This is old, I took it down when I was in a bad mood, but Kfritz7162 requested that I put it back up and I guess I'm feeling the holiday spirit :)  I don't remember it well enough to give proper warnings or tags, or even a good summary.After Svetlana and Ian kill Terry when Terry attempts to correctively rape Mickey via Svetlana, Ian ends up in jail, Svetlana runs, and Mickey joins the Marines to get out of the Southside.  When Mickey is injured and medically discharged, he spirals for awhile then fate brings him right back to Ian.  And they work their shit out.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 42
Kudos: 72





	1. Freedom To Be Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kfritz7162](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kfritz7162/gifts).



> This was written before there were canon characters named Sandy and Chester. 
> 
> There's some heavy shit in here. You've been warned.
> 
> Same first chapter as Freedom To Be Me

Freedom To Be Me

Svetlana stands by the sink. Watching the water soak into the washrag in her cold hands. Her hands are always cold. There’s not a thing in the world that can warm them. The water is steaming. The rag is soaked and still she stands watching.

She was twelve when her father sent her to St Petersburg. They call it sex tourism. Child sex tourism. As though that makes it sound nice. It’s okay to rape a child if it’s tourism. Fucking an unwilling twelve year old, it was just part of the travel bundle.

The first chance she got, she ran. On the streets was no better.

Shipped overseas on a shipping container. Seasick in the darkness. Bodies crashing and grinding together as cattle in the close quarters and a storm at sea. Vomit, shit, and piss making the floors slick as the ship crested wave after wave, she could hear it crashing. The anger of the ocean. Crashing on the decks. Girls were crying. Holding themselves through the shakes.

But Svetlana sat still. Silent. Stomach flip-flopping, mouth dry. Silent. Still. Waiting. This is not where she would die. She knew that as clearly as she knew her place in this world. From the time she was just a girl, ‘Svetlana, you find man. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You make babies. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You do motherly duties.’

It was the seed planted in her head by her mother. Her mother who cooked. Cleaned. Did wifely duties so loudly even in the small, cold flat in the middle of a Russian winter. She could hear her father, every night, grunting and panting through the thin walls of their two bedroom apartment. Paper thin walls. And her mother’s matched moans that to a small child sounded more like they were wrestling or fighting. Maybe mother was being murdered. But there she was every morning, cooking, cleaning. Doing motherly duties. With a pinched smile on her narrow lips. In the small orderly kitchen, only enough room for father’s drinking buddies to play their cards at the kitchen table and get rowdy drunk on vodka. Ivan was always too drunk to leave and the children’s room was where the drunk guests would spend the night.

Ivan was allowed to sleep on a blanket on the floor. It was so. It was always so. Until Svetlana was eleven and woke to the feel of his penis on her thighs. His rancid drunken breath on her neck, his hands on her budding breasts.

Soon after it was St Petersburg for her. A distraction to men. Always a distraction to men.

Sasha was the first face she saw exiting the container in the port of Chicago. Svetlana was the last out. Sitting in the back corner as the other girls, shivering and hurrying to the warmth and fresh air exited into their life of more misery and more penises always trying to get in where they don’t belong. Waiting to explode like sticky volcanoes, ugly fucking skin-sticks.

And here she is, eight years after being sent to St Petersburg to become a stop on the child sex tour, here she is standing in the bathroom wiping sticky volcano spew off her inner thigh.

A heavy fist lands not once, not twice, but three times on the door, “you have customer,” Anatoly’s deep resonant voice.

It’s early. Much too early for a third costumer.

Looking at her face in the mirror she sees tired. And resigned. She sees a woman who wanted America the land of opportunities. Not America the land of unwelcome penises, closed fists to the gut, open-hands across the face, and small minds. Not America the land of hand jobs, fingers in the ass, penises in the mouth, penises in the pussy. Not America the ugly. She wanted America the beautiful. America the choice.

But she never had a choice. Cook. Clean. Do wifely duties. Here, there, it doesn’t matter. They’re both cold, windy. Alone.

So she replaces the paint on her lips with a fresh layer. Straightens her purple dress over her body. Her body that will be used-up in no time. An old whore with nowhere to go. ‘Svetlana, you find man’. Always, always echoing in her head. The seed has become the plant, has become the flower, has gone to seed and blown away on the cold winter Chicago wind.

Anatoly is standing by the door with the keys in his hand.

She scoffs at him. A house call. This early in the day. Breezing past him with the clicking of her heals on the tiled floor of the massage parlor. Into the late summer air of a city of possibilities. Possibilities on every corner. If you’re willing to sell your flesh, that is.

He opens the door for her. She steps into the black SUV. Through the tinted windows she watches as the neighborhood goes from bad to worse.

“Where?” she finally wonders as the streets become familiar from last week.

“Milkovich,” he responds as he turns the last corner.

She swallows her objections. Objecting a week ago only got her backhanded across the cheek. So instead she pats her dress where she’s sewn the hidden pockets. A switchblade in one and a pepper spray bullet in the other. He bit her breast her last week. He’s not going to get a chance this time.

The unnecessarily large vehicle comes to a halt at the curb. Anatoly is too chicken shit to come in. Like a he’s supposed to. Come in and stand outside the bedroom door. To make sure, to know the client is following Sasha’s rules. But Anatoly is a pussy. He’s seen the collections of guns in this house. And the multitude of young dirty, loud-mouthed men that seem to crawl out of the woodwork when there’s a whore on the premises. Wanting a turn, always wanting a turn. All of them.

All but the one. The one with the dark hair and soulful eyes. Always choosing the right moment to slip through the door undetected by the others before his turn. Svetlana is just a rancid whore as far as he is concerned.

Anatoly’s hand appears in front of her face, palm out, waiting, “blade,” he orders without turning to make eye contact.

She hesitates. This man has no idea. No idea what it’s like to be ridden and groped, slapped, poked, prodded, hair pulled, bitten.

His fingers flourish impatiently in front of her face. She sighs, pressing the blade into his palm. Fingers moving again, “spray too Svetlana.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now,” his head turns, leveling her with an icy gaze.

Knowing too well what his fist feels like in her stomach, what his backhand feels like on her jaw, what his disgusting skin-stick feels like pounding into her from behind as he pushes her face down against the table. She hands it over reluctantly. Sucking on the insides of her cheeks quickly, puckering her lips and letting lose a dart of spit into his hand as she pushes the door open and throws herself onto the curb. Her middle finger in the air as the tires squeal away from the curb.

Straightening her dress. He’ll be back in an hour. One hour. Always.

Piece of shit. She clears her throat, from as far down as she possibly can, far enough to bring forth some of the sticky residue from her last client, rolling it around on her tongue and spitting on the hot pavement where the oil stain was left behind by that gas-guzzling flashy piece of steel, plastic, and rubber.

‘You find man. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You have babies. You do motherly duties.’

This is your lot in life.

Running her fingers through her teased brown hair, feeling the heat of the mid-morning summer sun on her bare shoulders. Smelling the garbage lined streets, listening to the screeching and clanging of the L.

Her eyes close for just a moment. Just one moment to gather her nerve. Anatoly is gone. What is to stop her from walking away? What is to stop her from getting on the train and never looking back? A whore in Chicago, a whore in LA, a whore in Russia. What’s the difference? Maybe she gets on a train and doesn’t get off until she’s on the West Coast where it’s always sunny and the wind is always warm. Maybe she gets work as a nanny for a rich couple. Maybe they provide room and board. And she cooks. She cleans. She does motherly duties. But never wifely duties.

Her feet start to turn. A step towards the L. What’s to stop her from climbing up there and throwing herself on the tracks? A second step and the sound of a door opening. A face appearing. All rough and ragged and hard weather. Stony and angry. Always an expression like the world has wronged him. Like all the faggots and blacks, the jews and muslims, the women and liberals; they’re all out to get him. They’re all out to personally attack him, destroy him. Tear down his walls and steal his guns, force him to pay taxes and treat his children like human beings. Every single one of them on the attack, wanting to force their way of life on poor white man. White, straight, christian man who was just born the right way. And every one else was born wrong.

Welcome to the land of choice.

A handgun in his grip as he jerks his head to the side. A cigarette pinched between his lips.

Fuck Anatoly.

She enters the house. Fully expecting the whole horde of them. Drinking, swearing, smoking, and all shouting for attention. He with the loudest voice wins the first round with the whore. Celebrating their latest scam. Or spending the drug money before it’s even counted.

But they’re not here. It’s quiet. She hears the door close behind her and she looks to the living room. The couch. The chair. The boys are bloody. They’re just boys. They’re nearly naked.

The orange one looks confused as his hands drop away from his face. The dark one looks amused, he knew this was coming. A half smile, knowing and resigned rolled into one. A look Svetlana is familiar with, a feeling she’s familiar with.

“That one,” as he moves behind the couch. The trail of cigarette smoke following him. The gun tucked into his pants.

She stands in front of the boy. He’s watching her eyes. He’s barely conscious but the pain is so raw and so heavy she cannot deny it. He knows. He knows what is about to happen. And that doesn’t make it okay. It never did.

“She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you kid,” he leans towards his son’s ear, his hands on the afghan behind his head. The cigarette like a threat between his fingers. How many times has he put one out on the boy’s pale flesh? If she looked at the soles of his feet, how many round scars would she find?

He stands up straight, taking one step back and the cigarette rises, pausing midair while he appraises her hungrily, “ride him until he likes it.”

Burning white paper and chemicals with an orange tip floating across the air to his lips. She removes her dress. Looking at the boy. He is so young. And so afraid. It’s flashing in his eyes. His eyes that have never met hers before for longer than a passing glance. Now they’re locked on, as her dress rises over her head. Afghan orange, and brown, and white. Probably something his mother crocheted. Behind his head. His head that must be ringing with physical pain, racing with emotional pain.

“And you’re goddamn gonna watch,” the cigarette jabbing into the air like punctuation towards carrot boy.

Boy is queer. Boy with beautiful eyes is queer. And this is the land of choices.

Freedom to be me. As she reaches for his underwear. The blood is distracting. Like mud dragged in on a boot tread across an otherwise pristine floor.

Freedom to be you. As he helps her lower the shorts. He’s weak from the beating.

Queer boy fought back. Queer boy is sick of father kicking him around?

As her knees meet the couch beside his hips his head raises, eyes landing on orange boy and his face twists. And Svetlana knows how this feels. An undesired body part coming near and touching your most private area. A body part you don’t want to feel breeching the surface of your skin. It makes you feel as though you’re being zapped. Like an electric shock when you’re little and you rub your stockinged feet along the carpet to build up the static before you reach out and touch your brother’s nose to jar him, with a laugh as you take off running. But no laughing this time.

No. Nothing funny or childish and silly here.

Queer boy fought back because father hit orange boy. As his blue eyes linger on the other boy, she sees it. He is the broken child cowering in the corner, only lashing out when the person he loves is in danger. Father can do whatever his cruel heart desires to his own children. But child will not stand by and watch as father harms lover. Child takes his stand and father hits. Again and again into his face with his heavy fist. Again and again until child is crushed down into couch cushions and bleeding, gasping for air. Again and the sickening sound of steel on bone. Lights out.

Lights barely back on when a Russian whore enters the room.

Father is still behind the couch as her hand slides up his thigh. His eyes flicker to hers and it takes the breath from her lungs.

Boy is queer and no amount of pussy is going to change that. Boy is queer and this is land of opportunity. Of choice. Of freedom. Burger King? McDonalds? What is the difference?

The difference is a father with a gun.

But this is a house full of weapons. This is a boy who is broken and bleeding and barely conscious. And no amount of pussy will interest his gay penis. Father doesn’t realize this as he watches. He’ll be coming around the edge of the couch soon to see. To see if gay penis is coming to attention for pussy. For pussy that is rubbing against it because that’s what she was called here for. Ride him until he likes it. What if he never likes it? What if he only like McDonalds with his orange hair and his big hands and his penis? What if he never likes Burger King with her layers and her folds and dark places that are musty and used up and she’s only twenty years old? Find a man. You find man Svetlana. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties.

A man with black hair and sky blue eyes that are misting over with pain so raw it moves like a saw blade through Svetlana’s core. While his gaze lingers on her face. If penis is going to respond he better start looking at orange boy. What if it doesn’t respond? Will they all be on their knees on the linoleum, hands bound at the wrists, taking turns getting a bullet to the back of the head? Dead bodies wrapped in tarps and buried at the Southshore docks? Or cut up and dropped in acid? Or weighted down and dumped in the river?

A man who likes McDonalds.

Her blade and her pepper spray may be gone. But Anatoly is stupid. And she is not.

She looks beyond the boy who’s eyes are getting heavier by the second. On the verge of passing out. She looks at the old man who is watching her. Small man, small penis, small mind. Easy to control. The expression she wears like a mask taking her features. The expression she’s worn so easily since she was twelve years old back in St Petersburg with strange men with strange accents scanning over her like goods at a market place. The expression that says silently ‘take me, take me, I’m worth your money, take me, I want you, I need you’.

Find man. Cook. Clean. Wifely duties.

Fuck you Mama.

Eyes staying on father. Hand sliding across boy’s face, leaning into him. He’ll either give in to the pull of exhaustion and pain, or he’ll do something now. He’ll do something to take control, he’ll get one last burst of self-preservation and he’ll flip her over and fuck her until he can pretend she’s orange boy, or pretend he’s straight. Or whatever father wants.

Her index and middle finger find the base of boy’s skull. Behind his ear, soft place where neck connects to jawline. Gentle pressure. If boy takes control this will all be over. Rubbing deeply and evenly into his tissue, feeling his hands falling away at his sides. Just a push, a little push back into unconsciousness, back into the safety and warmth of falling, darkness that is comfort overtaking his mind.

Her eyes remain on the father as she emits a low moan, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. He’s eyeing her, exactly the way she knew he would. Like she is not more than goods at the market.

This house. It is full of weapons.

There are two of them now. Orange boy looks stupid. But maybe not so stupid. Maybe strong, maybe just gym muscles. But orange boy grew up South Side, then he must have something resembling survival skills. Orange boy can see clearly from his view on the chair, if he’s watching, that his lover has slipped back away to a different plane of existence. He can see that his queer penis has not responded, he can see that she’s not even trying anymore. Just rocking and rubbing for the sake of show, for the sake of showing father.

‘And you’re goddamn gonna watch,’ was what father said. Is orange boy watching?

Her hand falls from pretty-eyed boy’s face to the couch. Weapon. There must be a weapon somewhere. Her left hand sliding through his hair, keeping his head level so father does not see he’s unconscious.

He shifts, he’ll step around front now. He’ll see this show is false. She keeps the panic from her eyes. What will happen? He kills his own son in front of lover? Kills lover in front of whore? Kills whore for simply existing?

Or she can maintain control. Her fingers slip through the blood starting to crust in boy’s hair, reaching out for father’s hand. Lifting it off the couch and sucking his fingers in her mouth.

Right hand contacts a string of balls on couch. Kinky little rainbow boys.

Shit. No hammer? No screwdriver? No bat? Not even a hypodermic to stab in his eye?

Poop-place-beads will have to work for distraction. She pulls them closer, sliding half under sleeping boy’s leg. She wants to look at orange boy, but turning her head away from father will tip him off. This has to happen quickly when it happens. Her left fingers are climbing his wrist as she sucks his fingers deeper into her mouth, drawing back only to lick and twirl her tongue.

Stupid man. Stupid ugly man. With stupid ugly skin-stick. And his stupid ugly skin-stick is guiding his useless brain as she guides his hand to her breast. Smiling coyly at him as she licks her lips, sliding her fingers through her hair, snagging her hoop earring. Hoop earring with spring loaded blade. Small blade. More like needle. But enough to put in that dark bullseye of his pupil.

The cancer stick in his left hand, her breast in his right. The gun in his pants. The blade in her left. Deep breath, easing up on her knees to get closer to father. Angry little prick of a man. Butt-beads in her right.

The left hand jabs, the right hand swings. Eyeball stab and a good smack to the temple with queer son’s sex toy.

“What the fuck?” he sputters, hand rising for his eye. Not gaining his bearings soon enough to reach for the gun before she launches off the couch. Crashing into him as she struggles for grasp of the pistol. This piece of shit has no problem hitting woman. This she knows. And this she feels. But gun is in her hand, even as his fist is connecting with her ribs.

She does not want to shoot. Too much attention, the sound of gunfire. Bearing down on her shoulders with all her weight into his chest on the floor. Even as her ribs are cracking with the hard blow of his angry fist. But she has the gun. It’s in her hand and she’s gripping with her right hand at his throat. Not enough to block his air, but enough to make the panic rise in his chest, enough to make his left hand grip her wrist as she jerks the gun out of his pants. Sitting up now, gaining the angle to slam the gun down on his face before he can block.

Fuck being skinny young woman. Not enough weight behind the swing to knock him unconscious. Only enough to stagger him. Caught off guard but not broken.

Where is carrot boy? Useless McDonald clown.

She reels back and swings again, but this time his left hand has grabbed hold of her hair. Jerking her head to the side, throwing her off balance. The connection is strong but not strong enough and his right hand is gripping her fingers over the barrel of the handgun. Twisting her wrist. She must let go, or her wrist will snap.

His hands are on the grip, his finger is on the trigger. This is where she dies. Not in that shipping container. Not on the streets of St Petersburg. Not on the streets of Chicago. But in the home of a child abusing, sexist, homophobic piece of shit.

But Svetlana has been the raped enough. She will not become the rapist. If it means her life. So be it. America. The land of choices. Freedom to be me. Freedom to be a whore with morals. Freedom to be you. Freedom to be a gay boy with an orange love and a hateful father.

Maybe this is enough. Maybe she is dead whore with bullet in her head. Rolled in a tarp and thrown in the river. And maybe father needs son’s help disposing of body. So maybe son doesn’t get raped today. And maybe by the time they’ve disposed of the body they’ve come to understanding. Father will not go to prison because son helped hide crime. Son will not be fucked straight by a whore. At least not today.

And maybe this is enough. Maybe this is more than cook. Clean. Do wifely duties.

Suddenly a rush of movement and a jolt into her shoulder sends her spilling over to the side. A gunshot sounds and the sickening smack of wood on flesh and bone. It happens again. Or it echoes in her head. She’s unsure. Liquid splattering on her face as she turns. The sound of skull shattering. Her eyes close but she hears herself shout, “enough.”

Carrot boy kills father? Little pretty-eyed queer never forgive him. Does not matter what father does to son, son still loves.

“Enough!”

She hasn’t told her body to move but it does. It acts like a shield between orange boy and father bleeding on floor, “enough!”

There’s a detached glow in his eyes but it recedes when he focuses on her face, the bat halts on his backswing. The momentum enough to bounce off his shoulders while the adrenaline fueled self and lover defense starts to recede with each blink.

Her left shoulder feels strange, her ribs are aching, and her head is spinning. What now? The same question is painted across the green irises of the orange boy looking down at her. What now?

  



	2. Dreams Die Easy

  


Dreams Die Easy

Dreams die easy in here. They die behind the steel and the cinder blocks. They die through the plexiglass and her worried looks. They die through the phone and his voice. They die in the night as your bunkmate is sharpening his shiv. They die in the day as they’re watching you. As they’re watching you with that look in their eye. That look like they can smell nothing on you but fear. 

The dreams die easy in this place. The dreams of him and his black hair under your chin. The dreams of him and his ocean and sky worth of possibilities written on his irises. The dreams of his smirk and his voice. 

The dreams die easy in here. The dreams of West Point. The dreams of the Army. The dreams of serving a country you’re willing to die for. Willing to die for.

Instead you die in here. You die in here every single moment of every single day. With every single look and every single word. 

With her voice all breathy as she whispers through the phone, “I’m worried about you.”

With his voice all demanding and dripping with his self-assured announcement that, “it’s bipolar disorder Ian. And you’ve got this.”

But it’s not. It’s not. And he doesn’t. 

It’s not bipolar disorder. It’s whispering in his ears, it’s flashes of words in front of his eyes. It’s noises that are too loud that no one else hears. It’s his knuckles scuffing the cinderblock of his cell as he paces and paces. And waits. And wishes. And thinks. And swirls. And everything is nothing and nothing is everything. And he can get out. He can get out of here if he tries. He can get out with a spoon and even if it’s plastic from the cafeteria and he can get out of here. And he can find Mickey. And Mickey is still out there. He’s still out there. And he’s alone. And he needs Ian. Mickey always needed Ian. 

It’s not bipolar disorder. It’s the dull throbbing of the meds in his body. It’s the foggy path in the darkness that overtakes him in the night. It’s the guard’s nightstick being jabbed in his kidneys when he’s so fucking tired he can’t get out of bed. He can’t get off the mattress and he can’t breathe and he can’t swallow and he can’t close his eyes. So they stare. And they stare at the wall. At the cinderblock. And the guard jabs him again. And again. And he yells. And he reminds him what happens to prisoners who don’t follow orders. And it’s the taser. And it’s the moment of zapping unrelenting energy coursing through his veins as his body spasms and sparks his pain back to the surface of living. And he still can’t get out of bed. 

It’s not the depression. It’s not the darkness. It’s the guard again. As he locks him in solitary. With bruises and broken bones under red and blue and black and purple skin. It’s solitary where he lies on the cold cement unblinking unmoving unmedicated after their last attempt at lithium wears off. 

And it’s only a matter of time before you’re in a straight jacket and drooling on yourself. 

But the mental institution closed down with the last round of state funding cuts and slashing. And the only option for for a criminal whether bipolar or schitzo or or psycho or socio, the only option is behind bars. In a prison full of every piece of shit crazy and non-crazy that the world has to offer. And the crazies don’t understand the crazies and the non-crazies don’t understand the crazies. And the guards and the warden and the entire world behind cinderblock and steel doors doesn’t care. They don’t care. If a prisoner doesn’t follow rules, doesn’t follow orders, doesn’t get up when the alarm sounds, when it’s time to exit or enter or sit down or shut up or shit or eat or wipe their ass or take their shower; then they’re being disobedient and disrespectful and defiant. And it’s on purpose. It isn’t the disorder. It’s you. 

And the prison psychologist is just an old quack who doesn’t give a shit about the pieces of shit he serves and he doesn’t believe you when you say you saw God. And he just thinks you’re another piece of shit trying to plead insanity when your mind is fraying and your sanity is insane and you think about your bunkmate’s shiv and wonder how many stabs it would take to kill yourself. And you wonder if it’s sharp enough to slit your wrists. And you wish you could remember how to tie a noose and you wish you could tie a knot tight enough to swing yourself off the top bunk and break your neck. Because it needs to be over. It needs to be over.

And you’re in solitary again. And he said it was something about standing on the table in the cafeteria talking to God. And you sounded like Satan himself. And you still sound like Satan in your own head and he’s speaking to you and you can’t get him to stop. And you’re alone but you’re never alone because he’s here and he’s breathing down your spine and he’s shouting in your ear and you can see his fiery breath in the air of the darkness of the prison cell in the basement where there’s dripping water and there’s no light but the flame of his breath. And he’s talking to you when you close your eyes you see him and he’s beautiful and terrifying and he has bright blue eyes and you reach out to touch him and the next day your fingers are broken and your knuckles are split and there’s blood on the cinderblocks and you wonder where your fingernail went as you bite the naked nail-bed to remind yourself to feel. To feel something that isn’t dying and disintegrating and disappearing around you and within you. 

And they let you out into the courtyard one day. And the sunlight is blinding and the energy is burning through your veins and your mind is so full of ideas. And you’re buzzing and you’re running and you’re in the sunlight and it’s burning your skin. It’s burning your skin where the cuffs were cinched down so tight they left your wrists red and swollen and bruised. And there’s blood crusted on the edge of your skin and you peel it back and it’s an open wound and it’s beautiful and it stings. 

And they let you see her. Through the glass. And her eyes are worried and she doesn’t talk because you can’t stop talking. And you have so many ideas to tell her. And so many plans for when you get out. And so many things you want to do while you’re here. You’re here for a reason. God put you here for a reason and you have a mission and you’re here to save them. And she just watches you and you watch her as a tear rolls down her cheek and when you reach out to dab it your hand hits the plexiglass and the guard hauls you away for hitting the glass and you told him it was the tears. It was the beautiful tears. 

And they put you in solitary and they give you more lithium and you’re drooling on your arm. Your arm where there are bruises from his hand, from his giant hand as he dragged you down here while you screamed and you screamed. And this time you struggled and you cried and you hit him. And he zapped you again. With that buzzing energy stick that can’t compare to the energy buzzing around your brain and in your limbs and in your fingertips. 

And then they stuck the needle in your arm. And tomorrow when you wake up it’ll be five days later and you won’t know because the darkness is working to the surface and you’re waking in your own drool and piss and shit. And this time when they bring you back to your cell it’s still all over your jumpsuit and your cellmate laughs. And he laughs. And it echoes. 

And you die. You die. There is nothing in your soul left to feed. And there is nothing in your body left to fight. And there is nothing in your veins left to bleed.

And one day he’s there. He’s there on the other side of the glass. His blue eyes. Looking at you though the plexiglass but it’s not his voice. And it’s not his hair. And it’s not his mouth. The mouth you left a blazing kiss on that morning. That morning when he was waking up in your arms. That morning that you lived for the last time. 

It’s her. It’s her. It’s her with his eyes and you can’t remember her name. And why can’t you remember her name? And the only thing that will come out of your mouth is, “where’s Mickey?”

And she looks at you like you’re crazy and she feels bad that you’re crazy. But it was her father you killed. And she tells you, “I forgive you,” and you don’t know why. She should be happy he’s dead. She should be happy he’s gone and he can’t hurt her anymore. There never was anything to forgive.

And all you can say is, “where’s Mickey?”

And she looks at you again. She looks at you like you’ve seen each other every single day for the past two years and she tells you, she tells you like she’s told every single day for the last two years, “he’s in the Marine Corps Ian. He hasn’t been home since he left for boot camp.”

And you remember but you can’t remember because when she stands up to leave she has a pregnant belly and a hand-shaped bruise on her arm. And you can see her shoulder blades and they look like they’re going to pierce through her skin.

And you find a guy when your sexual desires become too much. And you can’t reel them in. Even though he warned you, he warned in a different lifetime in a store that was hundreds of years ago. He warned you. ‘They’ll pound the shit out of you and not in a good way’.  
And they do. And it doesn’t stop. And you long for solitary. 

And you don’t get up. And you never get up again. You are broken. And you will always be broken. 

The dreams die easy in here.

  



	3. Meeting God

  


Meeting God

“You ain’t gonna meet God today Mick,” he leans over him with that big grin and his blindingly white teeth reflecting the sun of the desert. His kevlar is in his hand and it’s got a bullet crushed against it’s reinforced shell. 

“Fuck,” his fingers rise to his eyes. The last thing he remembers is getting the okay over the radio. And pulling that trigger. And good fuck it feels good to pull that fucking tigger. And watch through the scope. Watch the pink mist. And good fuck it feels good to do it again. And again, “I ain’t ever going to meet God,” he responds, letting Mac pull him to seated as he blinks fog and buzzing out of his eyes and out of his head.

“Pushed ‘em back,” clapping his shoulder, “pushed those fuckers back,” his grin doesn’t falter. 

“How many?” wondering as he works his KA-bar out of his belt.

“Six. Impressive shit man.”

“Yah,” unbuttoning the buttons on his jacket with hands that don’t shake. They never shake. Not until he’s back on base. And he’s showering off. And his mind is clearing from adrenaline and the cloaks and masks come off and he’s just a piece of Southside trash again standing naked in a cold shower with a group of guys that are supposed to be his brothers but they don’t know a damn thing about him. And he don’t know a damn thing about them. But he knows he’d die for them. He knows he kills for them. And that’s all that matters. He doesn’t want to spend time with them in the States. He doesn’t want to go drinking, play poker, get rowdy in the barracks. He doesn’t want to take weekend trips to Vegas and watch strippers and get with hookers. He doesn’t want to go to TJ and get cheap pussy or free pussy and drink tequila.

But over here. Over here where the air is hot and it smells like sewage and the language sounds like chickens fucking. And the streets are dirt and the IEDs are loud. And the car bombs shake the Earth. And the gunshots sound like release. Over here, it’s different.  
His hand is steady as he pulls his jacket open, lifts his t-shirt and etches with the blade. Six more. Six more tallies in the line beginning under his left armpit and stretching on to the middle of his abdomen. Six more. 

Twenty-three total. Eight from this deployment alone. Not bad for eight months of work. For eight months of carrying eighty pounds of gear in the desert heat. Eight months spent mostly in the field and being dirty and sweaty and sleepless. Being hungry and more alone than he’s ever been in his life, but part of something the same. Part of something bigger than himself, bigger than the Southside and all the shit he left behind. It ain’t about the States or the uniform or the ribbons or the medals. It ain’t about the pay or the benefits or the housing or the glory. Fuck that. None of that matters. The job is shit, the pay is shit, the housing is shit, and the benefits include getting vaccinations that are still in trial periods and no one truly knows the long term effects they’ll have on the human body. The benefits include picking up some kind of desert rot on the soles of his feet. But that’s okay because at least when the skin is peeling off the bottom of his feet in the size of a potato chip, at least he forgets about the cigarette burn scars. It’s okay that his socks are caked in blood and stuck to his toes and sometimes he has to cut them off and peel the skin off with the tip of his KA-bar. 

It ain’t about that.

Over here, it’s about them. It’s about the guys in the desert digital cammies with the desert tan boots and the eighty pounds of gear on their backs. It’s about the guys sleeping in sleeping holes and conducting patrols in hundred plus degree heat through villages where no one wants them. It’s about the guys who are hot and tired and still walking. It’s about the guys that are beat and bloody and scared out of their fucking minds but still have each other’s backs.

It ain’t about weapons of mass destruction. It never was. 

It ain’t about freeing a nation that doesn’t want to be free. It ain’t about protecting the innocent from the likes of terrorists. It ain’t about those people that died in the towers or on the planes. It ain’t about the rubble in New York City or the families left behind. 

It’s about making sure that guy. And that guy. And that guy make it home. It’s about making sure they don’t die under his watch. It’s about protecting the guys he sleeps, eats, shits, trains, digs, bleeds, and lives with. It’s about sending them home to their families when this shit is over. 

And when this shit is over it’s about survival. Surviving the country you spent your life in with the people you grew up with that’ll never understand you anymore. It’s about trying like hell to pretend the crowd doesn’t bother you and the questions don’t bother you and the woman in the bar tracing her fingers over your tattoo and asking you why you joined, and telling you she’d like to thank you for your service; pretend that she doesn’t bother you. It’s about pretending the loud noises and the reverberation of fireworks on the fourth of July don’t bother you. It’s about pretending the sound of the dog barking through the night down the street doesn’t bother you. It’s about pretending the Hollywood version of this war doesn’t bother you. It’s about pretending it was an honor to serve this grand nation. It’s about pretending the medal they pin on your chest and the promotion is an honor. It’s about pretending that you can walk through a grocery store without your heart thudding in your throat and sweat trickling down your spine. It’s about pretending you’re drinking to have fun. It’s not to forget. It’s never to forget. 

It’s about pretending the nightmares don’t follow you. It’s about pretending they aren’t still lingering in your mind all day long. It’s about pretending the screams don’t echo in your head and how sometimes it is all you can hear. It’s about pretending that the red spots lingering in your closed eyelids are not blood. It’s about pretending that the latest war movie and the latest war video game don’t make you cringe. It’s about pretending that the homeless guy isn’t you. That homeless guy on the corner in Palm Springs with his beat up combat boots and his worn out jacket. 

That’s not you. And you see him. You see him every single payday when you go to the house with the turquoise door. With the plum colored curtains. With the gold pillow. And the ginger prostitute. And you pretend it’s not him. 

It’s about pretending you’re straight. And the girl you’re with is the one you’ll marry. It’s about pretending she’s the one you’re hard for. It’s about pretending she’s the one you meant those letters for. You meant those written words for. 

It’s not him. It’s not still him. It’s not him in your closed lids and your open eyes. It’s not him under your fingertips. Against your lips. It can’t still be him. Not now. Not anymore. 

It never could be.

————

“Went kinda deep this time man,” he sighs as he presses the last piece of tape down on Mickey’s ribs.

He doesn’t respond, just taps his cheek and leans back on his rack. Transport was quick. Usually it’s a few days to get back to a base with racks and showers and pissers that flush. With a mess hall and air conditioning. This time it only took two days.

And this time they get a ten day rest-over. Mickey hates being on base. Too many people. Too many faces in a sea of faces and sometimes he sees the one he can’t forget but he can’t remember. He sees him under the bleachers in his ROTC uniform and he thinks about him. He wonders if he’ll ever run into him over here. If he did, if he ever did, it’d be on a base. Not in the field, not on a FOB, not on a mission. It’d be on a base. A real live base where most of these lazy fucks spend their entire deployment. 

An officer, he feels himself smirking at the idea. Fuck officers. 

Grunts. Ground pounders. First to go, last to know. That’s where Mickey belongs. That’s where he is. That’s where he’ll always be. 

————

“Tell birdie I love her,” his back against the phone block as he watches the sea of faces in front of him. Waiting for their turn. Waiting for their phone call home. Waiting for the moment that the voice on the other end comes crashing through their consciousness and becomes that solid reason to survive. To keep going and keep pushing. 

“Mick, I…” her voice trails off and she swallows hard, “never-mind. I’ll tell her.”

“What’s up bitch? Can’t just get all weird two fuckin’ minutes before my time’s up and expect me not to worry. Somethin’ wrong with birdie?”

“No. Nadiya’s fine,” fuck her for naming her kid after their dead mom, “she’s still asleep. I just, um… I saw him. Ian.”

“And?” he answers immediately like it isn’t a knife in his heart. He knows she saw him while he was doing time. He knows that. He knows she went to see him every month. 

“He tried to kill himself.”

“And?” pretending. Pretending is so fucking easy. Pretending nothing hurts. Nothing can hurt him. He is a well-trained, mentally and physically, killing machine. And nothing matters. The only thing that matters, the only thing that ever matters is getting everyone home.

“They checked him into the psych ward this time.”

“And?”

“I just… I thought you should know. I mean last time he tried to kill himself was behind bars. This time was… he was doing fine. Lip said he was doing fine. He was on meds and balanced and he was working towards his old goals. He thought if he wasn’t fit for combat, there were still jobs in the military that he could do. He could…”

“He can’t,” he realizes it as he says it. The diagnosis was a heavy one. Mandy told him. And he pretended he didn’t care. But he still looked it up. Bipolar I with psychosis, delusions, paranoia. And he still thought about him. He read the articles when he was lying next to Lydia in her bed in her apartment in Palm Springs that her parents pay for while she goes to school and she found herself a military man and that’s all she ever dreamed of. A man in uniform who serves a higher purpose. Just like her father did. Her father who did twenty years in the Air Force.

Fuck the Air Force.

She saw the Hollywood version of this war when she looked at Mickey the first time. She didn’t see the nightmares waking her in the middle of the night with him sweating and crouching on the bed whispering, ‘they’re here’. She didn’t see him being gone for eight months at a time overseas where he was unreachable and the only calls he could make would wake her at four AM and they’d be staticky and delayed more often than not. And they’d be quick and they’d run out of things to say even faster than they ran out of time. She didn’t see the days he’d be standing right next to her but so far gone there was no way to reach him. She didn’t see the ghosts that would sit on his shoulders and speak in their whisper soft voices about the things he’s seen and things he’s done. And for what? For what?

And he saw a way out. A way to pretend he was straight. Sure, gays can join the military but that doesn’t mean there won’t be hate. That doesn’t mean it’s a safe place to be out. 

And Lydia’s easy. She’s pretty but not too pretty. She wants a military guy and he can pretend she’s not cheating when he’s overseas. And she can pretend he’s not cheating when he’s paying a ginger prostitute to suck his dick and fuck him in the ass. It’s an easy unspoken agreement. 

It’s easy.

But this isn’t, “how’d he do it this time?”

The first time was the wrists, “OD.”

“At home?”

“Yeah.”

“And what? They didn’t see it coming?”

“I guess not. Mick, it’s not their fault. It’s not Ian’s fault. It’s…”

Phone card's out, time’s up, “I gotta go Mandy. Tell birdie I love her.”

————

And here it is. Here’s the moment when everything you stood for and everything you worked for and everything you sweat and bled for explodes in front of your face. Here’s the moment when the ringing in your ears happens before the blast. Here’s the moment when the warning sirens are firing in your mind before the ground rumbles. Here’s the moment when the clenching in your stomach happens before the dirt and gravel and body parts fly. 

It was nothing. It was a promotion ceremony. It meant nothing. It was just another promotion that meant nothing. And they weren’t going to wait until they were on home soil this time. They needed something to celebrate. With ten weeks left until they’d be getting on that flight home. Ten weeks and they hadn’t lost anyone on this deployment. On the first one it was one guy. On the second it was three. The third one they made it home without losing a soul. A few casualties, sure, that comes along with all deployments. A few lost limbs, a few concussions severe enough to be pulled from combat put on base for the duration, a few minor injuries here and there. That happens. That happens in training stateside. That happens.

And the fourth one. Fuck. It was between the first and second that Mickey went to sniper school. And he fuckin’ killed it. Just like he’s killed everything they’ve put in front of him since he entered boot camp. It was the last time he broke parole. His fuckin’ parole officer told him it was military or it was big boy prison. And fuck him for being a pussy and taking the easy way out but it turns out the easy way out wasn’t very fuckin’ easy and sometimes he wishes he had truly taken the easy way out behind prison bars with three meals a day and flush toilets. Fuck him for being such a stubborn ass, for seeing a way out of the Southside and taking it. Shooting shit has always been his thing. Blowing shit up has always been his thing. Ain’t nothing new. 

Sniper school. Now that was fuckin’ tough shit. And now he gets to work mainly with one other dude. They work in partnerships attached to grunt units. It ain’t prison. And it ain’t the Southside.

Mac’s been his partner for nearly five years now. They work together without needing words and that works pretty fuckin’ fine for Mickey. Mac spots, Mickey shoots. That simple. Anton MacKay. Big black mother-fucker from Detroit. Saw his way out of a gang by joining. They ain’t much different but they ain’t at all alike either. 

But this is it. This is seven years of duty. He’s set to reenlist when he’s stateside again. Re-up. He’ll do this for twenty fuckin’ years if they’ll have him. And he’s sure they’ll have him. All the fuckin’ useless medals and commendations prove that. The medals mounted on the Dress Blues that he never wears. Lydia made him take her to the Marine Corps Ball the only year he was stateside for that shit and he told her never again. Never again would he go through that shit. 

This is seven years in. Seven years since he’s set foot in the Southside. Seven years of his new life. This is seven years of tired and achy and exhausted and sunburned and sweating and pushing the limits. And he fuckin’ loves it.

Another mission done. Complete. One more tally on his ribs. Etched into his skin, the life he’s taken. The life he’ll never forget. The faces he’ll never stop seeing through his scope. 

Another mission done and a few nights at a FOB. A few nights at a FOB and a promotion ceremony for one of the PVTs. His first time over. He’s all proud and hasn’t had the wind knocked out of his sails yet. He hasn’t eaten too many MREs and and slept in the dirt for twenty-two nights straight yet. 

But this moment. This is the one. This is the one that’ll make you question everything you knew of fair. Everything you knew of just. Everything you knew of sacrifice.

As the ground rumbles and the dust rises. As the shrapnel flies and the IEDs go off like lines of firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Firecrackers that are big and dangerous, loud and murderous. They’re wicked, evil and twisted motherfuckers that don’t care if you’re man, woman, child. They don’t care if you’re enemy or friend. They don’t care if you have a wife, a lover, a daughter, a son, a mother, a sister. They don’t care. They don’t care for anything more than destroying you. 

Destroy you they will.

His ears are ringing and his vision is blurry. His insides are clenched and his mouth is dry. His hands know what to do. His feet know what to do. But he’s not geared up. They’ve gotten comfortable here. That was their first mistake. To get comfortable. To remove gear. To go out into the yard of a FOB without full gear. 

An IED is an uncontrollable bastard. It can’t be shot. It can’t be gutted. It can’t be stopped. All you can do is withstand. Cover your face and withstand. But Mickey doesn’t cover his face. He’s far enough away when the ground starts rumbling. He had to piss. He had to make a head call before the ceremony started. And he did. He wandered out to the edge of the wire and he left his stream in the desert sand. He tucked in his dick and started back to the group. He saw Mac’s eight foot tall ass and his blindingly bright smile. He saw Gunny Beck and Doc Jordan. 

And then it happened. The ground shook and the pieces flew.

  



	4. An Explosion

  


An Explosion

I’ll be back. I’ll be back when you think I’ve gone away. I’ll be back when you think you’ve drown me. When you think you’ve put your hands on my throat and crushed the life out of me. I’ll be back when you think you’ve put me in the dirt and set shovelful upon shovelful on top of me. I’ll be back when you think you’ve weighed me down and dropped me in the river. I’ll be back when you think you’ve put me in your palm and lit me on fire for the last time.

The glass is cool on his forehead as he leans against it. Watching a pigeon pecking at the thawing ground in the courtyard. The pigeon pecks and Ian closes his eyes. The numbness of that wet blanket on his shoulders. That cloud in his eyes. That fog in his head. 

He takes a deep breath and waits. In his closed eyelids. An image. This time it’s not the devil and his fiery breath. It’s not Satan with his bright blue eyes. 

It’s an explosion. An explosion of dirt and desert sand and rock. It’s blood and chaos. It’s screams of full grown men and bodies crushed under rubble. It’s blindingly bright and dark around the edges. It’s narrowing and the vision is growing smaller. A tiny circle of light in the center. A hand he’ll never forget reaching out. Reaching for something in the rubble. Reaching for a hand. A hand. And pulling. The hand still attached to a forearm and nothing else. A forearm with USMC tattooed on it in black letters on black skin. A hand a forearm and nothing else. 

He opens his eyes, “Mickey,” and looks down at his open hand. The burn scars on his palm. The burns that are still blistered on his fingertips. They keep asking why. Why do you burn yourself Ian? It’s not him. It’s not himself that he’s burning. It’s it. It’s the it that follows him and hunts him and preys on him. It’s the it that is in every corner and darkened alley. It’s the it that stands in front of him and stares at him in broad daylight. It’s the it that scratches at the back of his neck and whispers in his ear, ‘you can’t get rid of me’. It’s the it that he burns, he burns and he burns. And he can’t kill.

  



	5. Ten Ceremonies

  


Ten Ceremonies

Medals on Dress Blues. Three-rifle volley. A folded up flag. 

He can barely stand on his own two legs. But they’re still there. Under him. Both of them.

Ten ceremonies. In one day. In eight different states.

Ten ceremonies. Ten men. No bodies. 

Only pieces. Pieces put together like jigsaw puzzles. Identified by race, by tattoos, by hair color. Some right, some wrong. Closed in a wooden box. Draped in an American flag. Red. White. Blue. Flown back home on an angel flight. 

Ten ceremonies. Ten families. 

Detroit in mid April. The sun is bright for a Spring day. The air is damp. 

Ten ceremonies. Ten families. Eight states. Ten ceremonies. Ten caskets. Ten flags.

Lydia is beside him. Her hand is on his arm. Tucked against his side. Dress Blues. A crutch, a sling and an eye patch. 

When it’s over he stays. He can barely stand anymore. But he stays. He watches as the dirt is pushed into the hole. He watches as it’s patted down by the bucket of the tractor. He watches as the sod is pressed down on top of the grave. 

And he stands. He stands. And he remembers Mac’s hand. His hand through the rubble. Grasping for his hand, it didn’t grasp back. It was still warm. But it wasn’t moving. He dug. He dug with his bare hands until his fingers were bloodied and torn. And he found parts, he found pieces, he found the flesh and bones and severed limbs of his brothers. He couldn’t see out of one eye and his arm was throbbing with shrapnel and his leg was split open from a piece of metal that embedded itself in his thigh. And he dug. And he found the parts and the pieces and his hands were covered in blood and bone and guts. And brain matter. And he dug. And he sweat and he bled and he kept digging. 

As the sun is dipping low on the horizon he sits. Now he sits. And he remembers. Lying on the rooftop with the sun beating down hot and heavy on his back, burning his neck and listening to Mac beside him breathing. He remembers the moments between missions. The conversations, the jokes, the stories. He remembers the sound of his voice and the look of his face and feel of his presence. 

Reaching into the pocket of his dress pants, navy blue with a blood stripe, producing a toy car replica of the ’67 Chevelle that Mac was saving up for. This was the time. ‘This is the time Mick. This is the time I’ll have the money in the bank’. 

“Fastback for fast women,” as he sets it on the headstone. Running his fingers over the engraved letters.

  



	6. Outrun Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a mood disorder could speak

  


Outrun Me

Outrun me.

I will nip at your heals. I will claw at your calves. I will tear at the backs of your knees. 

Outrun me. 

I will grip your thighs. I will circle your hips. I will rip through your stomach.

Outrun me.

I will scrape at your chest. And puncture your lungs. I will slither around your neck.

Outrun me.

I will bite at your ears. I will whisper through your hair. I will comb fire into your locks.

Outrun me.

I will nip until your achilles is punctured. I will claw until your calves are no more than mutilated flesh. I will tear until your knees have abandoned you.

Outrun me.

I will grip until your thighs are bruised. I will circle until I’ve shattered your pelvis. I will rip until you are disemboweled.

Outrun me.

I will scrape until your ribs are exposed to the sun all white and pure. I will puncture until the blood has filled your throat and risen to the back of your mouth. I will slither until you suffocate.

Outrun me.

I will bite until your lobes are gone beneath my razor teeth. I will whisper until mine is the only voice you can hear. I will comb until your hair is scorched away from your scalp and your skin is melting to your skull.

Outrun me. You will fail.

And as you lie writhing in agony I will sit on your chest. I will pry your mouth open with my blood-stained claws. I will lean over you with my putrid breath of a million charred corpses. As you lie writhing in agony on the rain-slicked street I will shout his name. I will shout his name as I reach inside your chest and pull your still beating heart forth with my wicked claws. As I scream to the sky and Hell rains down on us both. 

Can you feel that? Can you feel me? I will always be here. I will always be standing behind you when you look in the mirror. I will always be the footsteps, the breath, the beating heart, the pain. I will always be the one thing you can count on. I will always be the one thing that never abandons you. Even after I’ve ripped apart everything you thought you were. Even after I’ve taken it all. I will remain. I will remain in place of you. 

And long after you’ve gone I will still stand. I will always be the things you’ve done. I will always be the things they’ll remember you for. I will always remain.

I will always remain. 

Outrun me. I dare you.

  



	7. The Dugout

  


The Dugout

Unfit for duty. An honorable discharge. And a waiting room full of us. Full of us and our ghosts. The ones we can’t talk about. The ones that hang heavy and full like stormy grey clouds, low on the horizon and ready to burst. The ones the cling, that the sun can’t burn away.

Unfit for duty. An honorable discharge and life as a civilian. 

“I don’t need your fuckin’ help,” the first one. The first wall between you, like a sheer curtain flapping in the breeze. Noticeable but not the end.

And, “don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” and the curtain darkens. Thickens. Blocks out more of the light.

And the stumbling. And the drunken slurs. And the looks. Again with the looks. And, “what?” more of a bark than a question. More of a scowl. And the curtain becomes solid. A solid dark wall of fabric between you.

And the blood soaked bandages. And the blood on your fingertips. And the blood trailing down your arm. And your leg. And sometimes when you close your eyes it’s all you can see. The blood. And the body parts. And the severed limbs. And the headless corpse. And sometimes when you sleep at night it’s like the whole world is shifting. Shaking. Rumbling beneath you and around you and through you. Like that day.

And the time you wake up. Wake up from a nightmare with your hands clenched down on a throat. And you don’t know where you are. And you don’t know who you are. And you can’t even see out of your good eye. You hear the choking. You feel the life sliding away.  
And a voice. A voice that littered your childhood. A voice that was always on the phone line. A voice that always echoed in your memories. A voice, “stop! Stop! Let her go!” and her fists are slamming down on your chest and it takes you so fucking long to snap out of it, “snap out of it!” that it’s nearly too late. And the baby girl, the little bird, the little bird with Nadiya’s eyes and Nadiya’s smile that have become your sister’s eyes and your sister’s smile that have become the little bird’s eyes and the little bird’s smile; and those eyes are wide and terrified. And they used to love you. And now they’ll never trust you again.

And you leave. You’re not even sure how you got here. How did you get here? Back in Chicago? Back in these streets are so familiar and so foreign and you hate them almost as much as you used to love them. And the only reason you ever loved them was because of him. 

It’s like fog in your head and your body is wading through pea soup. You’re nearly blind in one eye, only blurry outlines. And that doctor at the VA said they could do surgery to fix it, but there was high likelihood that instead of fixing it you’d end up completely blind in that eye. But at least you have your leg. And at least the shrapnel in your arm will work it’s way to the surface. One piece at a time.  
And at least you still have your life.

————

He finds himself in the dugout. On a hot summer night. He sits on the bench. That place they fucked that one time. That one time that Ian convinced him to ride him. And Mickey fucking hated it. He hated the eye contact. And he hated that Ian was watching him. And he hated that he could see him. So he just turned the fuck around. And Ian whined about it for like a week. And he always wondered, ‘why can’t I look at you?’, and Mickey always wondered, ‘why the fuck would you want to?’ but he never said it. He just mumbled some shit about it being too queer or some queer shit about the angle being better this way. But that was never the truth. 

He hated it. He hated how much he loved that idiot already. And how much he would destroy his future. And telling him that would only make him glare with that stubborn set of his jaw, it would only make him cross his arms and pout. It would only make him tell him some shit about not being fucked for life, about being able to get out of the Southside and the garbage life he leads. 

How fucking wrong. 

He woke up that day on the couch. A cop was leaning over him, fingers on his pulse. Mickey jerked awake and swung at him out of reflex. His head was a bowl of oatmeal and he couldn’t find or grasp a single thought. He refused treatment because who the fuck could afford that shit. He looked out the window and saw the car pulling away from the curb with Ian cuffed in the backseat. The whore ran. She took the fuck off. The only witness. The only one that could have validated Ian’s story, Ian’s story that it was kill or be killed. 

But Mickey had that shit under control. He had it under fucking control. Until that whore had to go and fuck it up. And then what? Mickey didn’t fucking know. He was out for the count. Whatever that fucking whore did to him, he was so far fucking gone. He didn’t hear a fucking thing. He has no fucking idea what happened. And it didn’t matter what he told them. It didn’t matter because he was an unreliable witness. And Ian was fucked. The gun wasn’t registered. Why the fuck would it be? None of the guns in the Milkovich house were registered. 

Fuck, and it was just another day on the fucking Southside. Just another dead body. Just another scuffle that ended in a dead body. And just another piece of Southside trash leaving a house in a body bag. And when old Ms Bodnar called the cops this time, this time when a gunshot was heard, this time they walked in when Ian was standing over the dead body. With the murder weapon in his fucking hands. 

Fuck them. Fuck the whore for fighting back. Fuck Terry for dying. And fuck Ian for being there. He shouldn’t have been there. He should have listened all the times that Mickey told him, warned him, pushed him away. How many times could he tell him he was toxin and he would kill Ian before that idiot would hear him? How many times? How many ways? 

The cops didn’t give a shit. Case closed. Dead body. Murder weapon still in the hands of the killer. The lawyer didn’t give a shit. Just a piece of Southside trash living in a boys’ home full of other pieces of Southside trash. The state-provided lawyer that somehow convinced Ian to take a deal. To take a fucking deal because the chips were stacked against him.

And Jesus fuck it’s not like Mickey could do anything about it. He told the fuckin’ cops the truth. He told them the fucking truth. Because it’s not like he could lie. He couldn’t tell them he saw it, he heard it, he witnessed it. Because he was still unconscious when they walked in the fucking door. They saw it. They saw it. 

“Fuck,” he tips the bottle back. The warm whiskey sliding down his throat and splashing in his empty stomach. 

And then what? Go back to the Kash N Grab like nothing ever happened? Walk these streets and live on this corner and drink in the dugout and get high under the L and pretend he didn’t destroy Ian’s life? Pretend that fucking that fucking idiot wasn’t the reason he was behind bars? 

What? Ignore it? Pretend his life was still his life and he could still run drugs and guns with his dead father’s deals and customers. His dead father who was killed by his gay lover. His dead father who was killed by his gay lover because a stupid fucking whore couldn’t fuck him straight.

Live his fucking life like he hadn’t been the reason that Mandy ended up in foster care. The reason she ended up knocked up by her foster brother who was no different than Terry. But at least Terry was predictable. At least by then they knew his patterns, they knew his tells, they knew his triggers. At least by then the worst of it was over. And they could still survive. They could still pretend that Mickey hadn’t failed her. Hadn’t protected her. 

The worst of it was over. 

“Fuck,” he tips the bottle back. And it’s fucking empty. 

Of course it’s fucking empty. It’s always fucking empty. Just like his fuckin’ wallet. Fuck, the gun ain’t empty.

  



	8. Go Ahead

  


Go Ahead

The monotony of stocking the shelves. The box cutter. The plastic. The glass bottles. One by one by one. The clink against the shelf. The clatter against the other bottles. One by one by one. 

The motion has become reliable. Mania, depression, psychosis, delusion, paranoia. Can’t break the motion. The fog of the meds. The meds that only exacerbated the symptoms. The meds that work. The motion is reliable. 

The customers are reliable. The usuals, the alcoholics with their red noses and yellowed eyes. With their sickly looking skin and their hands that shake. The kids still trying to use their fakes. Thinking this will be the time. The college kids getting rowdy even before the booze is poured. The soccer mom with her box of wine. He knows the customers. He knows the job. He knows the routine. And the chit-chat. And the ‘big storm on the horizon’ and the ‘you’re so lucky to be in air-conditioning, it’s a scorcher out there’ and the ‘just be glad you work indoors in the winter’. 

And the bell over the door. The bell that reminds him he’s here. Not there. He’s not behind bars. He’s not in the psych ward. He’s here. In the Southside. Working a job to make the money to keep the roof over his head. This job and the public library. The public library where it’s a miracle there’s still funding for. The public library where it’s quiet and he’s mostly alone. He’s sorting books and putting them in order. He’s creating order in the chaos. He rarely has to answer any questions. He rarely has to talk about the weather. Or the luck of having HVAC. 

And at the library sometimes he can read. He can find a quiet row of books and he can disappear into one. He can become the hero in the fictional pages. He can slay the dragon and he can solve the crime and he can escape to an island paradise. He can be someone else when he’s in those pages. He doesn’t have to be Ian Gallagher. 

And sometimes behind the counter of the liquor store, sometimes he sits back and reads one of those books. One of the books he borrowed on his own name on his own card from the public library. And sometimes he reads the memoirs of others like him. Like him. And sometimes he doesn’t feel so alone when he reads about the woman who’s mania brought her to lead a double life. And sometimes he doesn’t feel so alone when he reads about the man who ran through Central Park convinced he was being filmed for reality television. And he doesn’t feel so alone when he reads about others who self-harm and self-medicate and anything to stop it. Anything to keep it at bay. When the worried looks and hushed voices are stares and shouts. When no one else understands. When he needs to feel like he’s not alone.

He closes the book when he hears shuffling of feet, staggering and stumbling in his ears. He didn’t hear the bell this time. It’s nearly closing time. It’s Tuesday night. Probably just a regular that finished off his handle of Beam before his usual time and won’t make it through the night without more. 

Fuck, it’s probably Frank. He’ll hear something in a moment about the ungrateful fruit of his brother’s loins. To a hyper-sexual Monica who abused substances and never medicated, never learned how to cope, how to derail the freight train when it was on the tracks and chugging towards her with ten thousand tons behind it, nothing was off limits. Fuck Monica. Fuck Frank. Fuck Clayton. 

How to cope. How to fucking cope when the only way out of your own mind is to slit your wrists and watch them bleed. The only way out of your own mind is to chase the pills down with booze and wait until it’s all fuzz and blank life slipping out of your fingers and that’s okay. It’s okay until Lip decides it’s the perfect night to come home early and find you. Find you before it’s too late. But it was always too late anyway. 

He sets the book down beside the register. Before he can turn his head he hears it. The spring and the clang of a slide being pulled back on a handgun. Fuck. Fuck the Southside and all it’s pieces of trash. Robbing a fucking liquor store. 

Not the first time he’s had a gun pointed at him. 

He puts his hands up. Maybe he can convince this dumb fuck to leave. No harm no foul. Just walk away and no one has to end up hurt, or running, or filing a police report. 

Wait for it. Wait for them to speak. See what they want. 

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. 

Keeping his eyes open, his focus nailed to the wall behind the register. He is here. His is here in this store.

He is here with a stranger pointing a gun at his back. And he can control this. This is his to control. The question is, what outcome does he truly want? Does he want to be carted out of here in a body bag? Does he want this to end quickly and not of his own hand? Does he want this to be the last breath he takes and the last wall he looks at and the last t-shirt he wears and the last word he speaks, “go ahead,” he hears himself say. It’s steady. 

There’s no way they’ll think it was suicide this time. There’s no way that a stranger splattering his brains on the wall of a liquor store in a shit neighborhood could be suicide. And it’d be over. It’d be fucking over. That easily.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. This is it. Finally, “go ahead,” he coaxes gently, “please.”

  



	9. Another Statistic

  


Another Statistic

Even his good eye is blurry. Fuck, he’s drunk. But not drunk enough. He’ll never be drunk enough. Not until he’s passed out and the images won’t rise, until the images are drowning in the whiskey. That’s when he’ll be drunk enough. 

Which will be never. 

Stumbling down the familiar streets that are unfamiliar with the help of partial blindness and mostly drunkenness and the wallet is flat against his back pocket and the gun is perfectly weighted in his belt and the neon open sign is exactly the right beacon in a lake of alcohol to find an entire fucking ocean of alcohol because at some fucking point it’ll be enough. 

It’ll have to be enough.

Fuck the bell. Stupid fucking bell. One attendant. Easy. Leave the fucking place with a handle or two of whiskey and a few hundred bucks out of the register. Maybe he’ll buy a bus ticket back out to California and stand in the VA clinic to put a bullet in his head. In the VA clinic where they told him he’d have to wait until his paperwork was processed and he was already behind everyone else who was waiting for their paperwork to be processed and it wasn’t this fuckin’ lady’s fault they were understaffed and underfunded and overwhelmed by the generation of forgotten vets. But at least it’s not WWII where you only stood a chance of surviving your first few seconds of combat on some island in the Pacific. And it’s not Vietnam where your enemies are hiding in the fucking jungle and in holes in the ground. And you’re not getting spit on and protested when you come home. 

Nope, none of that shit. Instead he’s left with a body that’s unfit for combat because some stupid fuck in medical advanced the fuckin’ medical treatments in the field enough that he fuckin’ lived. And now he’s got a body that’s unfit for active duty because he isn’t just a bunch of blasted body parts rotting in the sun and the sand of a foreign country. He’s got a body unfit for the job he’s trained for. The only job he’s trained for. And now what? Wait for the disability paperwork to be filed behind all the other poor fucks who survived it and can’t figure the fuck out how to transition into being a fucking civilian because maybe they never fucking wanted to be again. Maybe they wanted to live the rest of their life in uniform. And maybe when it was over they did want to be pieces of flesh and bone rotting in the desert heat instead of the man who sorted through those pieces, instead of the man who found his best fucking friend in a pile of rubble and the only identifiable part of him was his fucking forearm with his matching tattoo. And fuck matching tattoos but they were brothers for life because of the things they’ve done together that no one else will ever understand. And now Mickey wishes they were brothers in death because the weight of his ghost is fucking, fuck. 

His fingers rise to rub at his eyes, blurring the blurry one into complete blindness as he shuffles his way over to the beautiful amber liquid that can make him forget. It can make him forget. 

It can make him forget how it felt when Lydia told him it was time to move on. That after five years of pretending, it was too much. That pretending didn’t feel permanent anymore and she just wasn’t strong enough to help him through this. She wasn’t strong enough to help him when he didn’t want the fucking help, he could do it himself. He could change the bandages and prop the pillows and empty his own bucket of puke when the painkillers made him nauseous and when he took too many because nothing could dull that pain in his head. Nothing could dull the sound of the screams of pain and agony amid the chaos of shattered lives. 

It can make him forget that his only friend is dead. That is only friend and the only person on the planet who can understand the things he’s done, he’s fucking dead.

It can make him forget that his own sister hates him. She has to hate him. The one person he could still count on after Lydia kicked him out. The one person he came crawling back to because he didn’t have any money and he couldn’t keep a roof over his head and he couldn’t hold down a job because he couldn’t fucking pretend that he had never seen the things he’d seen and he couldn’t fucking pretend he could stop them from appearing in his eyelids every single time he blinked. And he couldn’t pretend that the disability check that finally came through was close to enough to live off of. 

And she let him, she let him because she’s always been unable to stop loving someone even after they fail her miserably, she let him stay. She let him stay on the shitty couch in their shitty apartment. And then he did it. He grabbed the little bird by the throat when she was trying to wake him up. When all she wanted was to play. She just wanted her useless meaningless still-drunk uncle to get up off the fucking couch at noon on a fucking Saturday and play with her. 

And she was the one bright spot. The one fucking thing he could convince himself was worth living for. And now she hates him. 

Fuck it. Fucked for life. No matter where life takes him. He’ll always be fucked for life.

So he sets the whiskey down on the counter and tries to get his eyes to focus on the person behind it. The person who apparently needs a louder fuckin’ bell hung on that door because he didn’t even fucking move when it rang. 

His eyes are playing tricks on him as he scans the hunched shoulders and sees something familiar. Something familiar that he’s seen a hundred times and it’s never the one thing he’s always been looking for. So why would it be any different now?

He pulls back the slide. It’s like breathing. It’s his right hand. His sight. His mind. It’s the gun. He’s the gun. And it doesn’t matter what type of gun. It doesn’t matter what type of ammo. It is an extension of his body. 

Over the alcohol induced haze, and the fog that lowered itself over his mind on that day, he hears it. He hears it. And he knows it. He knows that voice. 

“Go ahead.”

He knows that voice. His stupid fucking eyes already betrayed him. His ears might as well too. Why not? Traumatic brain injury. How many concussions does it take before he’s demented and free of all memories? Fuck, maybe that’s the way to do it. Maybe that’s the way to erase the images. Fuck this suicide shit, then he’s just another statistic. Another statistic in a generation of nothing but statistics. But a demented fucked up war vet, that could be a good one. That could be enough disability to support the little bird through college. And the death benefits. Couldn’t die on foreign soil to collect the shitty death benefits for his family, the least he can do is become a science experiment for some doctor at the VA. Fuck, maybe that’d be enough for the hundred percent mark. Not that the hundred percent mark is enough to live on. Not with medical care needs and shit. But, fuck. Fuck it. 

Another statistic it is.

“Go ahead,” he repeats, “please,” all resigned and ready.

Fuck his head. Why is his head so fucked up after so many fucking years that it still hears him and it still sees him. And Mandy said he’s doing fine. Not that Mickey asked. Mandy said he’s working at the fucking public library now or some shit. And a convenience store. And what the fuck are the chances he’d run into him anyway? What the fuck are the chances he’d see the living breathing form of the shadow he’s been chasing down these familiar sidewalks since he set foot in the fucking place? This fucking city. This fucking city that reeks of his presence and only makes every single fucking face in the crowd look like his. Not even just the gingers. Not even just the tall lanky fucks. It’s every single fucking face on every single fucking sidewalk and in every single crowd. And every single crowd is suffocating enough without his presence chasing Mickey down. 

And fuck. Now his fucking breath is catching and his blurry vision is even blurrier and his heart is throwing itself so hard against his ribs that it fucking hurts. And now the gun is slippery in his sweaty grasp and he reaches out to wipe the fluid off his hairline that’s beaded there. 

He can’t see a fucking thing but that presence, that overwhelming presence is speaking in his ears and in his head and in his entire fucking body. And his entire fucking body is going limp, sliding down to the floor in a puddle of what-if’s and should-have’s.

“Mickey?”

And fuck it all, now he’s under the bleachers and kicking a faggot straight and those eyes are landing on his and a dopey smile is rising and he’s wondering, ‘you got any fuck left in you or you dump it all in that faggot’s ass?’ and his impossibly perfect smile is rising and he fucking hates it but he loves it and it’s that one fucking thing, that one fucking thing that’s real and never left, it’s that one fucking thing that was always in his mind and always in his vision even when his vision was fried and nothing would rise but blackness.

  



	10. Just Some Desperate Asshole

  


Just Some Desperate Asshole

“Mickey?”

Turning around, turning around and being faced with that image. That image of a face he thought he forgot, but the eyes the have lived on the devil’s face in the dark of solitary confinement and the eyes that he used to reach for, try to pull from the flames. 

But those eyes. They’re different now. 

His face is hidden in his hands, body slumped on the floor, breath hitching uncontrollably. 

It’s not him. It’s a delusion. It’s the meds knocking themselves out of balance. It’s the darkness pulling you back in. It’s the mania wrapping around your brain. It’s the paranoia and the psychosis. That’s what it is. It’s not him. And maybe you’ll laugh about this later, later when you talk to Mandy, when you see her next week for your monthly lunch meet-up. You’ll laugh about the delusion you had about her brother, her brother who you used to love. Her brother who’s been back in Chicago now for nearly six months and she didn’t want to tell you but she didn’t want to keep a secret. 

But there’s no way in Hell he’s standing in this store at this hour of the night with a gun in his hand. That’s not Mickey. That’s not the proud Marine sniper. That might be the old Mickey, the piece of trash that used to steal from Kash. Because he could. Or because he needed to. Ian was never sure. 

And Mandy would have told him. She would have said something if Mickey got hurt. She said he did two enlistments, he did eight years and he got out. She didn’t say he was wounded. She didn’t say he was medically discharged. She said he got out. She said it like it was his choice to become a civilian again. To start a life outside of the military when he was still only twenty-six and not too old to use his GI Bill, or start a job that would lead to a thirty year career. It was a choice.

But this guy. This guy who has the same stocky build and the same black hair and the same eyes. Eye. One eye is the same. The other one, that’s different. But that’s not Mickey. Whoever this guy is, well he’s just some desperate asshole like all the other desperate assholes in this neighborhood that would try to rob a liquor store on a fucking Tuesday night. Not smart enough to realize that no one uses cash anymore. Barely anyone anyway.

This guy has his face in his hands and his hands are covered by the long sleeves of his jacket. And half hidden behind his knees that have been drawn to his chest. But the gun is on the floor now. Beside him. And his whole body is quivering like an Autumn leaf about to descend to the ground from a tree in the next waft of air. 

But he said his name. Ian said his name. Did he respond? In any way?

No. He just slumped to the floor in a puddle of drunken human. It’s not the first time Ian’s witnessed this. It won’t be the last. 

“Sorry sir,” he tries, “it’s time to close up here. You’re going to have to leave.”

Maybe he’s so drunk he forgot why he came in here. He’ll just walk out and no one has to worry about the gun or the money in the register. No one will be cleaning Ian’s brain splatter off the walls in the morning. 

He takes the steps around the counter slowly. Apprehensive but he knows this is a delusion. There’s no reason to brace himself. It’s not Mickey. It’s not his face. It’s not his hair. It’s not his body. This is a cruel joke. This is just a face of a guy that Ian has never seen before and most likely will never see again. 

“Sir,” he tries again, “store’s closed.”

A nod that’s stifled by the guy’s hands and the way he’s holding himself. His fingers rising to wipe at his cheeks as his head draws back just slightly. His fingers. His fingers. Those are his fingers. And he doesn’t need the tats to know, he’d know those fingers anywhere. He’ll know those fingers for the rest of this fucking life and no amount of delusion can change that. Those fingers were branded into his flesh the very first time they touched him. 

“Mickey?” he tries again. 

“Fuck,” this time he jolts to his feet and darts for the door. He’s got a weird gait, like his right leg doesn’t want to keep up with his left leg and it doesn’t look like just a side effect of too much whiskey.

“Mickey!” his hand remembers the way it felt to wrap fingers around fingers, fingers wrapped around the shelf in the back of the store. The way it felt when he finally let him touch some part of him other than grasping his hips. The way it felt like his entire universe was closing in around him and completing itself at just the simple touch, at just the simple gesture. And fuck, he’d never even kissed him then. But it was there. It was right then and right there that Mickey became a part of Ian. 

His hand remembers everything. Every single part of his body that it’s contacted. His hand remembers every single detail that his brain has forgotten or forced itself to forget. His hand shoots sparks of lightning, and rolling energy is hurled through his every nerve as it lands on his shoulder. Zapping through him the feeling of Mickey. Even with the coat between them and the instant tension under his touch. But he grasps anyway. It’s Mickey. It’s not some cruel joke his disorder has played on him, it’s not some foggy prank of his medication. It’s Mickey. It’s Mickey.

  



	11. I'll Wait

  


I’ll Wait

He’s not sure how this happened but his face is in Ian’s chest. It’s pressed up tight against Ian’s heart. He can feel his heart beating slow, steady. Thud, thud, thud against Mickey’s forehead. Thud, pushing him away, thud, pulling him back in. Thud, keeping him there. Right there.

And Ian’s hands are on his shoulder blades. Barely putting any pressure down, just there. Just resting there. 

He couldn’t look at him. Even after he said his name. After he followed him. And reached for him. And touched his shoulder. He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t let him see. See what’s become of him. It’s right there on his fucking face. Written right there for the whole world to see it. And stare. And fucking stare. 

And he can’t bear to watch Ian’s face when he sees it. 

“Mickey,” he breathes it against the top of his head. Like he’s not sure he believes it. And Mickey’s not sure he believes it either. It’s been nearly nine years. And how the fuck does it feel the same? How the fuck does it feel right? How the fuck does it feel like no time has passed since that night on the couch. The one time, the only time they ever held each other. And fuck, he should have held tighter. He should have held him all fucking night.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself whisper and it gets crushed against Ian’s body.

“For what?” 

“Everything,” and it chokes and hitches and the burning aching tears that have been trapped behind his eyes start to leak, and there’s nothing he can do to stop them now. 

His grip is getting tighter, like he’s afraid Mickey is going to turn and run. And he wants to. He wants to walk out that door and never come back, and never face his failures. The first of many failures. Of so many fucking failures. 

“No,” he asserts, “don’t apologize,” his hands are starting to grip so fucking tight that Mickey can’t breathe. Or he can’t breathe because of the tears and the sobs that are racking through his body and if Ian wasn’t holding him he’d be on the floor. Where he belongs.

He feels Ian take a deep breath and his face tilts, finding a comfortable place against Mickey’s head to rest his cheek. Jesus fucking Christ after nine fucking years they still fit together like fucking puzzle pieces. 

“I need to,” fuck, that nice warm buzz of whiskey is gone. This is the closest to sober he’s felt since he set foot on American soil again. Whenever the fuck that was. More than a year ago, “I never should have suggested you stay with me. Fuck, I wish I could…”

“I said don’t,” he sighs it, but his body is growing stiff, “don’t apologize. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to talk about it. Fuck, Mick, I,” his voice trails off and his hands start sliding up his back, over his shoulders. 

Fuck, fuck him. He’s heading for Mickey’s face. He’s finding the handles of his jaw, pressing his stupid long fingers against his bones and forcing his face to tilt out of the safe haven of Ian’s chest. Fuck him. Fuck him for this. For looking at him, with that stupid tender smile on his face. For looking at him like he’s not marked. Like he’s not changed since last time he laid eyes on him. Looking at him like he’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. 

Fuck him for this. For leaning in. For his lips meeting Mickey’s. For not even asking first. Not asking if he’s single. Or if he’s interested. Or if he’s even still fucking alive. Because he’s not even sure. He’s not sure if he’s alive anymore. Fuck, this has to be Hell. These last nine years, they have to be Hell. Maybe he died on that couch that morning. Maybe this has all been a nightmare. Maybe these last nine years have been Purgatory and some fuckin’ moron finally prayed enough for his soul. 

Fuck, no amount of praying can save him now. It never could.

His lips don’t part. They just brush, they just rest, they just linger. But it draws every single ounce left of Mickey’s soul to the surface of his being. And then his lips are gone but his forehead is right against Mickey’s. And his hands are stroking through his hair and dropping down to his back and pressing him close to his body. 

Standing here breathing each other’s air as one hand rises to wipe tears off Mickey’s cheeks. He tells him with a voice full of wonder, “you are real.”

“The fuck you think I am firecrotch? An optical illusion or some fuck?”

The idiot laughs and drops his face into Mickey’s neck for a deep breath. Backing up so suddenly, leaving Mickey feeling so fucking empty so fucking quickly, “I need to close up the store. I can’t have anyone inside, but,” his eyes are locked onto Mickey’s and it doesn’t feel like he’s even noticed the bad one, “it’ll take like ten minutes, maybe eight with a slow day. Will you, um,” focus dropping as far as Mickey’s chest, staying for a moment to take a deep breath before rising again, “wait?”

“Guess I got nothin’ else to fuckin’ do. My plans for the night got kinda altered last minute,” he shrugs, feeling a smirk rising, “sure Gallagher. I’ll wait.”

  



	12. Grounded

  


Grounded

“The fuck is this?” pursing his lips at the cup that Ian hands over.

“Coffee,” turning to lock the door, “drink it.”

“I don’t need fuckin’ coffee firecrotch. I need whiskey.”

“Sure Mick. Drink the coffee anyway.”

“The fuck we goin’?” he falls into stride beside Ian.

“My place.”

“Fuckin’ Gallagher house is the other way.”

“My apartment,” he clarifies with a half smile. 

“Kinda forward to just assume,” he half stumbles and Ian nearly reaches out to steady him. But it’s Mickey. And Mickey doesn’t just decline help, he hates help down to his very core. He’s just materialized out of thin air, in his real human form, after nine years and Ian can’t afford to push him away.

“Assume what? That you need a warm shower and another cup of coffee? Maybe something to eat.”

“Fuck that,” grumbling as he trucks along beside Ian with that same old swagger he’s always had underneath the drunken stumbling.

So much between them on the darkened sidewalks they grew up on, so much stacked up like bricks that they’ll maybe never be able to move, never be able to see around, never be able to reach each other through. But somehow, turning his head to watch Mickey, somehow this feels right, it feels real, it feels like a part of him that’s been lost through the diagnosis and behind bars and in trying like hell to lead a normal life; part of him is being found right now as he scans over the side of his face. And it feels no different than it ever did. Like if he looks for too long he’ll end up nothing more than a scorched shell of what used to be a human, like if he looks for too long he’ll be overtaken by the pull into the whirlpool that is Mickey’s soul. Blinded by his beauty.

Blinded. Fuck, is that part of the stumbling? Can he see out of his left eye? Scar from edge of his brow to the edge of his nose. The blue like fogged stained glass. But it moved right along with his right eye. And it focused on Ian’s face for that brief moment before he was pulled into those perfect lips. 

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” without even turning his head.

“An old friend,” the response come out before he can think about it. The weight of it. 

But Mickey doesn’t seem to care. Or won’t acknowledge it anymore than Ian will. Old friend. Old lover. Old partner. 

He doesn’t remember what happened that day. Not really. Parts of it come at him in flashes. Flashes of memories before they disintegrate in front of his eyes and become nothing more than just another delusion. Sometimes wondering if the entire thing was just that. 

The last thing in his life that was ever real, maybe the only thing in his life that was ever real, was the night before. The night before when his lips landed on Ian’s and his life was forever changed, forever shaken from his mind all the goals he had, all the dreams that were his; everything, every single thing he’d ever wanted and could ever imagine wanting, was right there against his lips. Breaking his identity as he felt himself becoming one being with Mickey, one solid being. And that next morning as he sat helplessly watching, as he sat in the chair and felt the pistol connect with Mickey’s face. He felt it in his own stomach, in his own chest, he felt the years of abuse and neglect, he felt the life, the entire childhood under that man’s control. He felt it surging through his own body from the string of Mickey’s eye contact as the whore lowered herself into his lap. He felt that horrible aching helplessness emitting from Mickey’s being directly into Ian’s. 

And when he hit him with the bat it wasn’t enough. And when the whore said ‘enough’ it wasn’t enough. It was only enough once she took off out the back door, it was only enough once the gun was in his hand. It was only enough once Terry’s eyes were rolling open and Ian was standing over him. It was only enough once he pulled that trigger. 

And then it was over. But it was only the beginning. 

Find something safe to talk about. Find something, anything, to get him speaking. To be able to listen to the sound of his voice. The voice you thought you’d hear whispering ‘good night’ every single night when he thought you were already asleep, the voice you thought you’d hear telling you ‘good morning sleepy face’ every single fucking morning for the rest of your life. Not just once. Not just one time. 

“So a liquor store, huh?”

There’s that, “yeah. It’s not bad. I also work at the library. Volunteer at the animal shelter sometimes,” he shrugs. The books, the dogs, they’re the lifeline. They’re the solid things that can transport him to a different world, a world that is safe to explore and safe to hold. The dogs understand, he doesn’t have to impress them. They love him just for being there, just for touching them with a gentle hand, for taking them out in the fresh air, out to the dog park. It’s so fucking simple but it’s so much more than that. 

“That mean you got a ton of fuckin’ dogs you adopted ‘cause you’re too soft-hearted to see ‘em euthanized?”

“No,” responding to the sidewalk in front of him, “working two jobs, it’s… I wouldn’t have enough time to dedicate to a dog. A cat though…” he hears himself trail off. This will be a source of teasing, the crazy old cat lady. 

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yah that’s what I said. Means you ain’t alone.”

Alone. Alone is exactly what he’s been since that morning. But it’s not Mickey’s fault. Though Mickey will probably never believe that. Mickey will always think that his homosexuality was his choice, and it was his homosexuality that forced his father to call the whore. He’ll never understand that it was his father’s hatred that caused him to call the whore. He’ll never understand that it was the whore’s decision to take control and it had nothing to do with him being gay. She took control of a situation that she’s probably been on the receiving end of. A life in the sex industry, there’s no way that doesn’t come with it’s share of unwanted contact. 

And he’ll never understand what drove Ian to pull that trigger. 

Staring into the eyes of a man who had caused so much pain for the only boy Ian ever loved and will ever love, he caused so much hurt even though Mickey would never admit it. And Ian saw it so clearly that morning. 

And what would happen if he didn’t? If he didn’t kill Terry. If he got up off the floor. A wounded bear ready for a fight. Then they’d both be dead. 

It was just the shitty luck of the draw, an overextended system, a poor family in a poor neighborhood without access to a decent lawyer. In front of a judge he’d be just another piece of shit who pulled a trigger. No witnesses. And Terry already had clear markings of a man who should have been down for the count. Two swings with a baseball bat to his head. And then a bullet. The bullet was not necessary in self-defense. He was out of the fight with the hits from the bat, the gun was no longer in his control. The sirens were already audible in the street. Old Ms Bodnar had probably dialed 911 as soon as the first shot was sounded. And the first patrol car just so happened to already be responding to a domestic down the street. Surprise fucking surprise.

If Ian had waited. If he had taken the gun out of his reach. If he had just waited for the cops. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let that moment pass. He couldn’t let that man live, he couldn’t let him continue to do the things he was doing. To Mickey. To Mandy. 

It was time to take a stand. Fucked for life anyway, the moment he laid his hands on Mickey’s flesh for the first time, the moment Mickey looked at him like he’d never be whole without him, the final moment of lips on lips. And he was fucked for life. And it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was turning his back. If he turned his back, if he let that asshole live, if he let him destroy the only beautiful soul that was still pure and loving in this shit-stained world; then that would be his unraveling. 

“Yeah, she’s pretty good company,” he responds. And it’s true, “she’s a ragdoll. She acts more like a dog when it comes to wanting company, she likes to be wherever I am.”

He lights a smoke, taking a slow drag, when he offers it over, Ian shakes his head. Shrugging, “this ragdoll got a name?”

“Chester.”

“She’s a she, man.”

“Yeah well she likes Cheetos. So…”

“Fuck, you’re still just as fuckin’ dopey as you ever were,” his hand clamps down on Ian’s shoulder quickly before withdrawing. 

Good god he missed this. The pokes and insults that only Mickey can offer. Everyone treats him now like they have to walk on eggshells around him. Like he’s delicate and easily shattered. Even Mandy. Mandy who was always so willing to call him out on his bullshit, so willing to tell it like it is. No one trusts him anymore, always looking in the air around him like they’ll be able to see it if he’s off his meds or they’re out of balance or he’s slipping into an episode. Episode. 

“Since when do you eat fuckin’ Cheetos?”

“Carl,” he shrugs. Mickey doesn’t need more of explanation than that. He knows Ian’s family. He doesn’t have to tell him the story. He doesn’t have to say shit about anything. About how Carl was sitting on the couch in his new shitty apartment eating Cheetos and the new adopted kitten was batting at his hand every time he raised one to his mouth so he handed her one. And she ate it. And reached for more. 

He doesn’t have to say any of that, because it’s already playing out in Mickey’s mind. Or he already doesn’t give a shit and he’s wondering what to talk about next. Talking, something Mickey’s never been able to stop doing unless it was something that actually mattered, “library? Surprised any of those are still open.”

“Yeah. It’s nice. Calm, quiet.”

“No shit. Libraries are quiet?”

“Fuck off,” nudging him with his elbow.

Receiving an arched brow in response as he takes another drag. Taking a moment to appraise Ian’s face. Mickey’s left side is in shadows, “you look good.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t know how. He is a well structured face with a body that’s in shape. But it’s hiding a broken disfigured human. Feeling his fingers clamping down tight on his sleeves, keeping them in place. Unsure of how much Mandy has told him, how much he knows. Of all the things on the Earth that Ian can withstand, Mickey’s disappointment is not one of them. And he’d be so fucking disappointed if he knew. 

And what’s he supposed to say back? You look good too Mick? You always have. You’ve always been the most beautiful thing in this lifetime and I’ve never been able to tell you that before. But now that you’re full of scars and drinking yourself into stupidity to forget whatever it is you’re so desperate to forget, now is the time I’ll say it?

Instead, “this one,” when they round the corner to Ian’s building, “it’s a shithole but,” shrugging as he pushes the door open and sweeps his hand to motion Mickey in first. He hesitates, still keeping his left side in as much shadow as possible. Blinking rapidly towards some blank space in the distance, “it’s better than living at home anyway,” fuck. He’ll just walk in and let Mickey follow him. 

Taking the stairs, listening to the footfalls behind him, “ain’t it all just shitholes around here anyway?”

“Sure you’ve seen worse.”

“Sure,” he grunts it. A clear indication that he’s not going to talk about it, any of it, even the easy stuff, even just something as simple as the difference between a Southside dump and third world country. 

She’s running for the door as soon as it’s open, pawing at Ian’s shins until he lifts her in his arms, “hey Chester,” rubbing his chin along the top of her head. Some pressure releasing in his chest. Just the contact of a warm furry body that relies on him and loves him. She never looks at him like she doesn’t trust him. Some unwinding in his body as he walks in, letting Mickey follow. Letting him adjust to his surroundings, letting nothing more than the hall light and the dim glow of the kitchen nightlight reflect off his being. 

Ian doesn’t mind the dimness surrounding them anyway. He’s used to the darkness inside. 

Fuck, if he could bathe Mickey in light and drink in every single feature new and old. If he could run his fingers over every line and wrinkle and scar and he wonders how the pellet scars look now. How faded they must be. And his leg. The bullet wound from Kash. But that’s the leg that drags a little slower than the other, so whatever happened to it, did it cover the bullet scar? 

He wants to know. He wants to know every single thing about his body that’s changed. But, that would mean showing him his own body. His own useless body that doesn’t even work anymore, not in the way Mickey was interested anyway.

“Dinner?” he wonders towards the purring fluff ball in his arms.

“Fuckever firecrotch. Prefer liquid dinner but…”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Snort, mumbling something very Mickey that Ian can’t hear and doesn’t need to hear. He doesn’t turn to watch him. Listening as he unties his boots, removes his jacket at the door. He’ll let him adjust, let him decide how he wants to play this out. 

“But I do have leftover stuffed shells and I could steam some green beans.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

“I am,” though the butterflies that are starting to flap in his stomach are going to make eating nearly impossible. He’s here. Standing in Ian’s apartment. He’s gotten him this far. And he still hasn’t disappeared. 

Setting Chester down on the floor, she immediately makes her way over to Mickey. That settles it, either he’s sharing the delusion with the cat, or it is actually a real thing. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Mickey kneel down, extending a hand to the cat as she rubs against his knuckles. The insane amount of gentleness he’s offering a small animal is such a strange image for anyone who doesn’t know him, but for Ian, it is exactly how he knew Mickey would react to a pet. 

“I had a cat once,” he volunteers, “sorta. Like a dumpster cat. But he used to hang around the old buildings. I fed him.”

“What’d you feed him?”

“You think I was eatin’ the fuckin’ tuna I was stealin’ from the store?”

“No,” thinking about it now, there’s no way in hell Mickey would eat something like tuna, “I thought maybe one of your brothers or something.”

“Steal to eat man, every piece of shit for himself,” he sighs, stroking his fingers down the cat’s back, “except Mandy. Stole for her, otherwise she would have been blowing dudes for stuff.”

“You, um,” tapping the edge of the can to get Chester’s attention, “staying with her?”

“Nah. Was, but, can only freeload off my sister for so long, huh?” 

It sounds tense and like he’s not exactly telling the truth, they both know he’d be welcome to stay with Mandy for the rest of his life if he needed to. But he’s not going to get into it. 

He’s started scanning over the walls, being certain to keep his left side away from Ian, “how’s your family?”

“Same. Mostly, I guess. Monica’s dead. Frank might as well be. Fiona’s running a diner. Lip’s working in a motorcycle shop and finally taking some online college courses. Debbie is a welder. Carl is Carl,” he shrugs, “and Liam is in high school.”

“High school? Shit, how’d that happen?”

He shrugs, wanting to remind him it’s been nine years. Nine years. But he doesn’t.

“Monica? How, ah…”

“Brain aneurism.”

“No. How are you? You know, about losing her?”

“Fine,” but his eyes drop, finding Chester and staying there. His calm place. He misses her. But he knows, she’s a bad influence. She was a drug user and an alcohol user and she never wanted to reign in her disorder, she never wanted to try, she was never able to see the pain she caused for the people around her. And Ian is trying. He’s trying like fucking hell every single moment of every single day. And the fight is fucking exhausting and he rarely trusts his own brain, and he doesn’t always trust the meds and yeah sometimes he wants to flush them and give in, and live free, without the weight of his strict schedule and his daily doses and his obsessive checking and rechecking of his pill organizer just to be sure, just to be certain he’s still trying. When somedays, fuck, somedays he stares at his palm full of mood stabilizers, and sorting through the meds to find the right combination was so fucking hard on his system that he can’t get himself to flush them. Because going through that again, the adjustment and the tremors and the weight fluctuation and the nausea, he can’t fucking do that again. That much he is certain of. 

Antipsychotics. The fucking antipsychotics that make his dick limp and it never fucking mattered before because who the fuck would want him anyway? But the doctor wrote him a scrip for viagra, and what the fuck twenty something year old needs viagra so he didn’t fill it and he tried dating a guy for a little while and he filled the damn scrip and then it didn’t matter anyway because the asshole couldn’t stick it out when the anxiety gripped him so hard as soon as his hands were on his dick that he couldn’t fucking breathe. The asshole called Fi and took off before she even got there. Fi talked him into taking his damn sedative and sleeping it off. Sleeping it off. Sleeping off the loss of his identity and the loss of his mind and the loss of anything resembling happiness because he would be forever tied to a routine that was so fucking strict there was no room for spur of the moment, or living in the moment, or taking the time to enjoy the little things. Because the little things, the little things that every single other twenty something year old gets to enjoy, those are the things that will set him off. Set him off like a ticking fucking time bomb. 

So he can’t party and he can’t club hop and he can’t attend college and he can’t even fucking stay up all night just to watch the sun rise. Avoiding caffeine and unhealthy foods and anything that could end up throwing off his carefully balanced schedule and his carefully controlled routine. Every single fucking moment of every single fucking day is tracked and accounted for because what if it isn’t? Then he’s back in the psych ward and he’s back to burning it in the palm of his hand and he’s back to staring at the devil with his blue eyes and swirling flames in solitary confinement and he’s back to talking too fast and thinking too much and moving too often and too quickly and…

His eyes pass over his hands, where they’ve begun the routine. Come home from closing the store. Feed the cat. Get the nightly meds out. Heat up dinner. Take the meds. Watch a careful half hour of television. Do some fucking yoga, fuck that’ll go over well with Mickey, do some breathing exercises, drink more water. Take a shower. Get ready for bed. Get in bed and read. Read for no more than a half hour. Sleep. Every single second of every single day tracked and scheduled. For months he kept it in a journal. He kept it written down for his therapist, keeping him honest. Keeping him grounded. 

Grounded.

  



	13. Why Change Now

  


Why Change Now

“It’s ain’t really a shithole Gallagher,” watching from barely inside the place as Ian moves around the kitchen, “it’s small, but it’s fuckin’ clean.”

“Yeah, landlord let me paint it before I moved in. I ripped up the carpet too. It was gross. The floor’s hardwood out here. Bedroom was just subfloor but it needed new carpet anyway. Bathroom was pretty outdated and had about a hundred years of buildup in the tub.”

“Handyman?”

He shrugs, that I’m-embarrassed-to-be-me kind of shrug that Mickey is familiar with from Mandy throughout the years but he never once saw it in Ian in their teen years. It fucking hurts.

“Hope you got a good deal on rent for puttin’ in that work.”

“Yeah,” he wipes his hands on his pants and his eyes finally rise to meet Mickey’s. And fuck him for looking at Mickey like he always has. Like it’s too fucking hard to look for too long directly at his face, like he’ll fucking disappear or some shit if he keeps staring so the only time he ever looks for very long is when he thinks Mickey’s not looking at him. But as his eyes drop back down to the task at hand, he has that little secret smile on his dopey face. Like Mickey just did something in-fucking-credible for just making eye contact with him for more than a split second and not punching him for it. Fuck him. Fuck him for not staring at his bad eye or not being able to look at his bad eye. Fuck him for not even seeing it. 

Fuck. Fine, if he’s going to act like it’s not there, like his fucking face is the same fucking face he’s used to looking at, or was used to looking at, if he’s going to not ask when he shouldn’t ask, if he going to make the same eye contact with both fucking eyes; then fine. Mickey will walk into this fucking apartment. All the way in. And he’ll sit at the stool at the counter and he’ll watch Ian cook his little midnight meal. Or fuckever time it is. It sure in the fuck feels like midnight and he sure in the fuck feels too sober for this day to still be happening. 

But it is getting chilly at night. And this apartment is warm. And that damn cat is soft and she keeps rubbing up against Mickey and when he lifts her into his arms she puts her paw down on his cheek, right under his bad eye and she watches him. She doesn’t look like she’s judging but she’s not going to get away with that shit, “the fuck you lookin’ at Chester?”

She’s got big old blue eyes and she practically looks like she’s smiling smugly as she nudges her head into Mickey’s chin. Fuck her. And fuck Ian for having her. Oh fuck she’s soft. 

And when that asshole sets a full plate in front of Mickey, fuck him for eating it, ‘cause it’s fuckin’ good and it sure in the fuck ain’t some freezer meal, “you cook?” 

“Yeah. I prep the week’s worth of meals on Sundays, sometimes cook them and freeze them.”

“Damn. This is fuckin’ good.”

A little pink blush rises and his big dumb eyes won’t rise and he won’t accept a damn compliment for what it is.

“What else you do? Liquor store, library, animal shelter, cook, handyman. What else you do?”

“Um,” watching his plate, his fork dragging across the cheese remnants on the nearly empty Corelle, “Fi makes us all come over for dinner on Sundays. I have monthly lunch dates with Mandy. Um, I read. I, um,” scraping the fork over the cheese again, “run three mornings a week and swim three mornings a week. I do, um, I do yoga every night. And um, I don’t know. It’s just,” his eyes finally rise, like he’s waiting to be ribbed for doing yoga. 

“It work? The whole fuckin’ meditation shit?”

“I don’t know. I guess. I mean the breathing exercises, that’s helpful. Relaxing, I guess.”

“Don’t breathe when you swim or run?”

Eyes dropping now, focusing on his plate with his little half smile like he’s uncertain of who the bigger idiot in the room is, “yeah. I guess. It’s just different.”

“Where you swim?”

“My siblings got me a gym membership, they keep renewing it for my birthday. You, um, you ever…”

“Go to a gym? Fuck no. I hate that lifting shit. It’s fuckin’ queer as fuck watching yourself in the mirror and all the grunting and panting and fuckin’ testosterone on display. Fuck.”

“Swim,” he sighs out a laugh, this time certain of who the bigger idiot is.

“Gotta to graduate boot camp. Fucking tread water in full gear. Shit’s hard. Thought I was dyin’ the first time. Sunk right down to the bottom, yanked all the gear off and forced my way to the surface just to get shoved back in when I got out.”

Fuck. He looks all in awe over that shit and that was nowhere near the interesting shit. But it was his dream once upon a fucking time and Mickey got to live the military shit and if he told him the full fuckin’ truth of it he’d be glad his dream died before it had a chance. Because here’s the fuckin’ thing about Ian, his fuckin’ heart is too fuckin’ big for combat. Combat would destroy him.

Fuck. The diagnosis looks like it did it’s fair fuckin’ share of destruction. Even sitting in his own damn apartment with someone who’s known him for so fucking long and even when they were apart it never fully felt like they were apart, even here in this place in the world he should be most comfortable, he still looks like he wants to hide inside of himself. Fuck, Mickey knows that feeling, but he never showed it. He always just got tougher and stood stronger and puffed out his fucking chest and walked faster and threw more sarcasm and snark out into the world when the world got fucking tougher and meaner with every single fucking breath he took. And then he left the fucking Southside and he got to be proud of himself for once. Proud of the things his body was capable of. Proud of the things his mind was capable of. 

Then that all went to shit and the only thing he’s capable of is destroyed in the blink of a fucking eye. And all he’s got to show for it is a bunch of fuckin’ scars and a limp. Ain’t like he’ll ever talk about it, because no matter how many lives he saved by taking lives, he still fuckin’ failed in the end. He was outsmarted by a fucking IED. 

Fuck. He’s not sure what his face just did but Ian is staring at him with that stupid open look on his face like he understands every fucking thing Mickey just thought without saying a damn word. Fuck him. 

Thumbing his nose as he gets to his feet to clear the dishes, what the fuck’s he s’posed to say now? Thank him for dinner, tell him he’s glad he’s doing well when it’s so fucking clear he’s only doing well on the damn surface. He’s floating on the surface of life and he’s afraid to make waves now. 

Tell him he’s fuckin’ out and he hopes he sees him next lifetime or somethin’ ‘cause this one got too fuckin’ hard. 

They’re two broken shells of humans and Mickey’ll only drag him back down to a shittier life of shittier things and he’s doing just fucking fine working two jobs and volunteering, happiness sometimes just doesn’t fucking happen. And it’s not like it ever happened for them before. Why the fuck would it be different this time? What do they have anymore? All they ever really had was the physical attraction. Didn’t they? And sure it’s still there, but Mickey’s useless dick hasn’t worked since he got home and maybe it was the booze and maybe it was being with a woman and maybe he should have gone to the place with the turquoise door and checked it the fuck out with someone he was fucking paying to get fucked by. Maybe it would have worked then. 

But, fuck, not like it matters if his dick works with Ian. It wasn’t about his dick anyway. 

He drops the plates in the sink. Running the water until it’s hot and plugging the drain.

“You don’t have to do that Mick.”

“Fuckin’ fed me, man. I’ll do the dishes.”

“They can wait until morning.”

“We fuckin’?” he turns his head with a brow up. Not expecting it, but unsurprised anyway. That’s all they ever did before. Why change now?

“No,” he sort of stumbles back like Mickey just reached out and shoved him.

“I mean, I haven’t showered in fuck knows how long, but that never bothered you back in the day,” his hands are working their way through the dishes without his eyes leaving Ian.

Ian, who takes another step back, his hands rubbing along his pants, “no. I don’t want to fuck. I,” his hand slides through his hair. His hair is longer than Mickey’s ever seen it. All shaggy and a deeper red when it’s this long, it keeps flopping down on his forehead and he keeps pushing it back or flicking it away with a quirk of his head. He wonders if it’s still as soft as it used to be, “I, um, I just wanted,” he bends to pick up the cat who was standing on her back legs, batting at his thighs, “I just wanted to catch up. I don’t want to fuck.”

“No?” fuck. Of course not. Mickey’s fucking homeless and dirty, been doing nothing but drinking for fuck knows how long, he’s half blind and it’s not like Ian knows what else is under his fucking clothes, “alright,” the last dish is in the strainer. He wipes his hands on the towel and makes his way towards the door, “thanks for dinner firecrotch.”

“Where are you going?” his eyes are lingering on Mickey’s boots as he laces them.

“Fuck if I know man. Maybe knock over a fuckin’ Walmart or fuckever twenty four hour store. Maybe just find a trash can fire somewhere and see if anyone’s got a spare drink, fuck, maybe a needle. Needle might fuckin’ work. Could probably go down to the old corner and see if any old connections are willing to loan, fuck, I don’ know. Trade the gun for some smack. Possibilities are fuckin’ endless in the land of the free, home of the brave,” his voice shakes and he doesn’t mean it to. His thumb rises to his nose and swallows hard as the blur invades his good eye. Blinking rapidly as his hand drops to the door handle, “but, uh, I’ll see ya around sometime?”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes are lingering on Mickey’s and he can’t tell if it’s pity or hurt, or fuckever he’d be feeling right now. But he takes a few steps towards him, quietly, almost bashfully, “don’t.”

Hand is turning the knob, “don’t what?”

“Don’t do any of that,” he’s still got the cat cradled in one arm, “don’t go. Please,” his right hand extends, lingers in the space between them for a moment. If Mickey had any space whatsoever to back up, he would duck him. But that fucking hand is sliding across his face, across his stupid scarred face with his stupid blurry eye and his damn warm forehead is meeting Mickey’s and he can hear that damn cat purring. And why does this feel so much more like home than the Milkovich house ever did? Why does this feel so much more like home than the barracks and base housing and Lydia’s apartment ever did? Why does this feel more like home than Mandy’s place did? And why does this, why does this right here, feel like the one thing, the only thing, that makes survival worth it?

  



	14. Stay

  


Stay

“Please stay,” he whispers against Mickey’s lips as his hand slides along his jaw, tilting his head back, pulling away to make eye contact, “please stay with me.”

He sounds fucking desperate and pathetic but he can’t let him walk out the door. He doesn’t know how to get him to stay, but if he leaves, if he walks out into the dark cool streets of Chicago, Ian will never see him again. He knows that. He knows it just as clearly as he always knew Mickey, knew everything about Mickey. Even when he barely knew a thing about him. Fuck, maybe he’s been crazier longer than he thought. Maybe the things he convinced himself of back then weren’t real either. 

Maybe it didn’t happen that way. Maybe Mickey was dead on that couch and Ian’s mind has been trying to protect himself from that moment through all the years passed, maybe he’s been chasing a ghost and maybe he finally caught that ghost. Maybe the OD worked and he lived Purgatory through the psych ward. And maybe this, maybe stroking his hair and breathing his whiskey and cigarette laced breath, maybe this is heaven. 

“Mickey?”

“Yes. Fuck. Fine Gallagher. I’ll fuckin’ stay.”

Nope. He’s real. Sighing and forcing himself to take the step back. To back away before it’s too late and his presence overwhelms him, before he starts at his clothes just to be disappointed and embarrassed and ending up taking a sedative and sleeping for too long. Feeling off, tired, and heavy for two days or two weeks or two months. 

“Shower’s that way,” he motions down the hall, “I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

“Fuck you, your clothes ain’t gonna fit me.”

“Well your clothes stink and you’re not sleeping on my couch in them. So, take what you’re given and shut the hell up about it.”

His brow rises along with a smirk, “gettin’ bossy in your adulthood, huh?”

“Maybe,” he sighs, feeling his lips tugging upwards into a smile, “now go get cleaned up.”

————

It’s hard to focus, hard to do the breathing and keep the balance and keep his head and his heart in check when he can hear the sound of the shower running. And all he wants to do is go in there. Even if his dick won’t work and his mind can’t handle the bombardment of sex after all that’s happened. Even if he freaks out and ends up a bumbling mess on the floor of the tub when he lays eyes on Mickey’s bare body. Damnit it’d be worth it. Just to pull the curtain aside and get a glimpse of that pale smooth flesh, pink from the heat of the shower, glazed with droplets of water and begging to be touched. 

Deep breath. Focus. Chester rubs along his ankles and then darts over to the corner of the room for her scratch pad. She’ll be lying on her back underneath him in a moment, waiting to be pet and adored. 

Getting lost in the routine. Clearing his mind. Forcing away the anxiety and worry, the constant reeling in his mind since he laid eyes on Mickey barely over an hour ago. The crashing of should-haves that keep echoing. 

Counting the breaths. Focusing on the sound of his purring work-out partner. Deep breath. Plow pose and…

“Jesus Christ Gallagher.”

“Fuck,” rolling to the floor in a heap, “Mick,” trying to keep his startled heart in his chest.

“Don’t fuckin’ stop on my account. Fuck.”

Flat on his back, watching Mickey’s face upside down and way too far away. He’s clearly self-conscious about that scar, but the more Ian glimpses it, the more beautiful it becomes. The foggy stained glass look of his eye, it’s intriguing. It’s contrast to the bright beauty of his clear one. Fuck, it’s hard to look away from once he makes contact. But it was always that way with Mickey.

“You got clippers?”

Definitely no jarhead cut on that black hair anymore, “head, balls, back, or ass?”

His eyes narrow, cheeks sucking in against his teeth for a moment as he eyes Ian.

“I’m kidding. Sort of. Head?”

“I mean if you’re offerin’…”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah well like I said, if you’re offerin’…”

Jesus, maybe he should just give in. Go pop a boner pill and let it kick in while Mickey’s shaving his head, “I’m offering to cut your hair.”

“Fuckever man. I can do it. You can finish your yoga,” quirked brow. He’s got the sweats on that Ian left in the bathroom. The pants are too long but the t-shirt fits. Mostly. 

“I’ll finish later. It’s easier to cut the top when it’s still damp.”

“I was just gonna buzz it all down, no need to get all professional.”

“You don’t want matching cuts?” he feels his face smiling. And it feels so foreign, it feels like something he hasn’t done in years. 

“You cut your own hair?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. 

“How fuckin’ frugal of you.”

————

“Fuck, that feels better,” running his hands over the back of his neck. The hair buzzed down to nearly nothing, faded and left longer on top than would be considered acceptable if he was still active duty, but it’s more than acceptable for running fingers through. 

“Face?”

“Full service shop or what?”

“We’re here aren’t we?”

“I am,” he runs his hand over his beard that’s probably been growing for weeks but is still next to nothing, “I was going to let this shit go, get all thick and grisly, really fit in with those hipsters and their beards and man buns.”

“Well we just took the man bun off the table. And I’m pretty sure genetics took the thick grisly beard off the table.”

“I could grow a beard.”

“Sure, if you let it go for ten years.”

His eyes land on Ian’s and Ian’s breath catches in his throat. The longer he’s close to him, the harder it is to hold himself back. To convince himself not to touch, not to kiss, not grip and hold and grab and never fucking let go because he never should have let go. 

He gives a cocky half nod, the go-ahead to shave his perfect face for him, or maybe it’s the go ahead to kiss him. But fuck, kissing him would only lead to one of the many things they’re avoiding. 

————

“Well,” wiping at more clippings on his shoulders, “guess showering first was the wrong decision,” tilting his head to watch Ian, “and guess putting your clothes on first was pointless.”

“Guess so. I’ll grab more clothes. My shower can wait.”

“It’s a pretty big shower firecrotch,” that fucking brow.

“I’ll wait. Clean this up and…”

Fuck, now his eyes drop away from Ian’s and he looks so fucking rejected. It’s not a good look on Mickey. Not at all. But it’s like the third time he’s shot down his insinuations. 

This is what we used to do. This is all we used to do. 

“I can’t,” it parts his lips before he can stop it.

“Can’t what? Shower?”

“No, I,” a hot flush is creeping up his neck, “forget it, I…”

“It’s fine, man. I can barely stand lookin’ at myself,” his eyes won’t rise and he’s turning towards the tub, peeling the t-shirt over his head. 

A rush of protective energy courses through Ian’s body and he reaches out, yanking the t-shirt the rest of the way off. Spinning him by the hips to turn him his way. A startled look on his perfect face before Ian’s lips meet his. Rough and passionate. Nine years worth of stifled longing crashing to the surface. 

Mickey doesn’t miss a beat. His lips parting hot and wanting against Ian’s, tongues meeting in the middle as though they’ve been kissing each other every single day for their entire lives. Reading each move before it’s made. The heat and passion overwhelming. And apparently the asshole swished some mouthwash because the flavors from earlier are gone, but the flavor of Mickey is still there under the mint and it’s the flavor that Ian’s been missing for so fucking long he nearly forgot what it tasted like. Nearly.

His hands slide down his back, drawing him closer. Until there’s no room between them. God he wants this, he wants this man. He wants this man and everything that comes with him. All the pain spoken and unspoken, visible and invisible. He wants every touch and every feeling and every single fucking inch of him. 

If he could only convince his dick to wake the fuck up under the weight of the meds. It’s like the appendage isn’t even there anymore. Every part of his body gripped with passion and lust but the one fucking part that matters. 

And Mickey’s breath chokes off in his throat as his hands finally start moving away from where they’ve planted themselves firmly on Ian’s chest. One sliding down to his waistband, the other around his shoulder, grasping the back of his neck. Jesus Christ they’re rising smoldering coals under Ian’s skin and he can’t see anything in his lids past the twinkling lights spinning and crashing together. He can’t feel anything beyond the pull of Mickey’s body but his stupid fucking dick is doing nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. 

“Fuck,” he pulls away, breathless and flushed. 

“What?” all cocky and self-assured but Ian would be an idiot not to notice the lack of boners all around. He’s not releasing his grasp, keeping Ian’s face close to his. The fingers tighten to a point of pain in the back of his neck, like he’s holding on for dear life and he can’t fucking bear to have Ian pull back. 

“Let’s get showered off,” he can’t catch his breath and he can’t pull away from Mickey but his hands have frozen themselves in place on his warm flesh. He can’t convince himself to let go, staying there on his lower back. He feels thin but muscled and all Ian wants to do is head south to that perfect ass. 

“Yeah,” it’s whispered towards Ian’s mouth. And his hand taps down on Ian’s cheek in that rough gentle way that only Mickey can offer as he appraises his face. 

Fuck. Nuzzling his nose and walking into him, backing him towards the shower. Hand dropping to the faucet, pressuring him towards the spray of hot water. 

It is everything that Ian hasn’t felt in nearly a decade boiling to the surface under the droplets of water. His flesh is warm and soft, his hands are rough, his lips, fuck, his lips. Fuck, why didn’t they kiss like this back then? Why didn’t they explore every single instance of each other’s mouths and bodies back then? 

He whimpers against Ian’s mouth as his hand slides up his side. His left side. Feeling beneath his fingertips the uneven skin of scars stacked up in a line like tallies. Reading like brail the twenty-four marks in his flesh. Wondering what the hell could possibly have made these. Even in length, evenly spaced scars. Twenty-four of them. 

It’s not like Mickey was lacking scars back in the day. He passes over them, pretending he’s not counting them, not memorizing them. He won’t ask, he won’t pressure him to say a damn thing he doesn’t want to say. Because he doesn’t want the pressure in return, he doesn’t want Mickey to ask about prison and about the disorder and the delusions and the ongoing list of tricks his mind has played on him. Since the moment he laid eyes on him, and laid hands on him, since the moment he realized Mickey was real; it’s the first time he’s felt anything worth feeling. And he doesn’t want that to change. He doesn’t want pity or regret.

He wants this. Passion. Lust. And every ounce of it Mickey returns tenfold. 

He only stops kissing him to take a breath. To lean back and look at his face. At his perfect face while water from the shower-head drips across every surface, collecting in his brows and lashes and pouring off the tip of his nose as he smiles gently up at Ian. The height difference wasn’t this much before, it wasn’t this much when they lost each other. Fuck, there’s something about it, about that extra bit of tilt to his face, that extra tenderness that he can see plain as day in his eyes. Both eyes. Even though one is foggy and he’s not even sure how much he can see, but he’s looking clearly at Ian. 

“Fuck I missed you,” he half-whispers it and it gets caught in Ian’s mouth before he can speak to tell him how fucking gorgeous he is.

  



	15. Afraid To Kiss Me

  


Afraid To Kiss Me

“Well ain’t we a pair of limp dicked fucks?”

“It’s not your fault,” he murmurs it against his face, through the steam and heat of the shower water that feels so fucking good on Mickey’s back, “meds.”

“Whiskey or somethin’,” he’s not even sure. Maybe it’s more, maybe not, “fuckever. Still feels good.”

“Kissing?”

“No, being a fuckn’ impotent piece of shit. Yes, the fucking kissing dipshit.”

His laugh is only a tiny one, but the twinkle that rises in his eyes is more than enough to make Mickey smile like a fuckin’ moron, “never thought I’d hear that coming from you,” his big hand is sliding through his hair. He was so fucking gentle cutting it, and he did a fine job of it too. 

“Probably ain’t a bad thing to not fuck right away anyway, huh?”

“Right away, like you’re going to stay awhile?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” but fuck if he can chase the butterflies away from his stomach at the prospect.

His damn hand drops from his head, tracing his arm, right over those fucking shrapnel scars. The fucker’s going to find them all in the first fucking night. 

What’s easier? Getting naked with a stranger, someone who didn’t know you before you were marked from head to fucking toe with the shit you’ve seen and the shit you’ll eventually have tell them about? Or getting naked with someone who knew you before, who knew your body like a goddamned road map? Even when you didn’t let him, didn’t let him look and touch and feel. Even when you pretended it was too queer, it wasn’t about the intimacy freaking you the fuck out. No, all that looking and touching was homo shit and you weren’t a damn homo. 

Fuck him, digging his fingers into the back of his head to draw him back down. Fuck his height now too. He won’t just be able to dip into his lips whenever the fuck he wants, he’ll have to stand on his fucking tip toes like a bitch or fucking make pouty lips at him to get him to bend. Fuck that. He’ll leave finger shaped bruises on the back of his damn neck instead. 

————

“Go to sleep firecrotch,” he mumbles, half his face sunken into the pillow. Facing Ian in the darkness of his bedroom. The damn cat lying between their chests, purring so fucking loud. 

“I will.”

“Yeah well I can’t until you stop fuckin’ starin’ at me.”

“Then get ready to be awake all the time,” his hand slides under Mickey’s pillow and laces fingers together. 

This has never happened before. Lying in bed together. The only night, the one and only night they ever had the option, they fucked for so fucking long on the couch that they ended up passing out there. Waking up and fucking again. But it was still just fucking. With kisses. And touches. And eye contact. 

But this. This fuckin’ queer shit. Fuck. Laying here looking at that face that he wanted to forget but could never fucking forget. And now he’s here, right here. And he has no fucking idea how to get past the wall of years between them when it all still feels so fucking right. They’re practically strangers but it still feels like, fuck, it still feels like all the things Mickey was always trying to deny to fucking protect that ginger dope. And then he couldn’t protect him anyway. And he couldn’t stop it from happening. 

If he had just kept his damn mouth shut, let him go to the group home, never suggested it. But it was his fucking birthday and the house was his for the weekend and he wanted to fucking celebrate with the one person on the planet that he actually wanted to spend time with, and Ian didn’t know it was his fucking birthday and that was just fucking fine with Mickey. He didn’t want the dumb birthday shit, he just wanted to have a few beers, watch some movies, and fuck. And keep fucking until his stupid birthday was half over. Then go to fucking work and pretend nothing ever happened. 

Fuck. He fucked that up. Asking him to stay for one more round. One more round. ‘Cause the first half dozen wasn’t enough. One more round. And the fucking beads. He fucked that up too. And not wanting to fuck in his bedroom. Not wanting that touchy feely fuckhead to get a chance to fuck him on a bed. Bring it to the bed once kissing is part of the equation, fuck that. 

At least when you’re fucking on a couch and there’s kissing and eye contact, at least then it’s still just fucking because it was heat of the moment. You were watching a movie and making out. Like fucking teenagers do. Like teenagers who mean nothing to each other. Because why the fuck would a teenager reign in their hormones when the object of your hormone infatuation is sitting right there with his big dumb green eyes and his stupid orange hair and his dopey fucking smile making sideways glances at you like you’re too dumb to notice or something. So that was all it was. Hormones. 

Until it wasn’t. Until it was the next morning and he was waking up still sticky and sweaty from the night before with that idiot’s gentle breathing on the back of his neck and his dumb hands trailing up the inside of Mickey’s thighs. And it wasn’t like he was going to say no. It wasn’t like he was going to stop it when his hard-on was already nestled against Mickey’s asscheeks and it already felt so fucking good. And he wasn’t going to roll over or turn around or do anything at all, just lay there and let that fucker feel him, and kiss his shoulder because it was right fucking there in front of his face. And it had been so fucking long since someone had touched Mickey with anything resembling gentleness that it wasn’t like he knew what to fucking do. So he let him. Eighteen fucking years old and only days ago experienced his first kiss. Ever. 

Who the fuck was Mickey going to kiss? Fat Angie? Fuck no, she was good at giving head ‘cause fat girls love to put things in their mouths. And fucking her was whatever, it was just some hole to stick his dick in when he was horny and it’s not like he could hop a fuckin’ L to Boystown and actually be accepted for wanting what he wanted. And a girl like Angie with shitty self-esteem, well if you ask her to put her fingers in your ass, she’ll do it. She’ll do just about anything to get someone to pay attention to her. 

But, fuck, it’s not like he’d kiss her. Why the fuck would he? He didn’t need to, she’d still suck him off and let him fuck her without kisses. Juvie? Fuck, bang a dude as a power move, not like you’re gonna fuckin’ lips on lips that shit either. 

Then there was that fucker with that dare all over his damn face in the middle of the fuckin’ summer, ‘he isn’t afraid to kiss me’. Givin’ away his damn body for some old fucker to buy him fucking room service and not be afraid to kiss him with his gross old man lips because that gross old man knew he was using Ian. Whatever sick fuck with a fetish for underaged boys, and Ian was too fucking naive to realize he was nothing but a warm mouth to someone like fuckin’ Dr Ned. Fuck him. Fuckin’ pervert. Mickey should have killed him on that street. Not just beat his ass, he should have curb stomped him. Kill two birds with one stone. Then that sick pervert would have gotten his and Mickey would have ended up back in the can before he had a chance to ruin Ian’s life. 

Fuck him and his, ‘he isn’t afraid to kiss me’. Only reason Mickey was afraid is because he knew, he knew if he crossed that fucking line he’d be ruined. Ian would be ruined. Fucking a piece of Southside trash and falling for a piece of Southside trash are two completely different fucking things. 

And of course once he fucking did it, once he felt that fucker’s lips, it was like every single thing he’d convinced himself about his sexuality was so blatantly wrong. He was a straight dude who fucked other dudes in juvie for domination. He was a straight dude who fucked the block’s fat girl ‘cause she was easy and good at suckin’ dick. He was a straight dude who for some fucking reason let some stupid ginger fuck him one day because the look on his face when he woke Mickey up with a tire iron, like he was all tough and hard, like he could beat a Milkovich into submission. Who the fuck did he think he was kidding? And then the lanky little fucker did put up sort of a fight. Enough to get Mickey’s blood moving. And then he was pinned under Mickey and his blood was moving to the wrong fuckin’ place for a straight dude.

But he was still a straight dude. Who occasionally took nine inches up the ass. And still fucked the block’s fat girl from time to time. Or sat on her musty old couch with her and ate pizza ‘cause there was always pizza in that house. And it was a pretty solid fuckin’ place to get a meal when he was so fuckin’ hungry he couldn’t even make it far enough to steal anything and then he was working at the closest stupid corner store and he couldn’t steal from there anymore. Or not much anyway. Not enough to get noticed since that was his job and all, to keep shitheads from stealing shit. 

And he was still a straight dude even if he didn’t fuck girls anymore. He was still straight, because it only counts as gay if you enjoy it. And if you get intimate. If it’s just a hole and a pole it ain’t queer. It’s just hormones. And convenient. 

And fuck, ‘likin’ what I like don’t make me a bitch,’ but kissing you, that would. Feeling something other than just a release of hormones, that would too. And fuck, that idiot was good at releasing hormones. 

But then he had to. He had to kiss him. Because if he didn’t, then the idiot would keep fucking that old guy for his room service and the things he bought him. And then all Ian would ever use his sexuality for, was getting things he wanted. All he’d ever be worth was room service and things. Things. Whatever fucking things. His body would have a price tag on it. It wouldn’t be about enjoyment or wanting, or passion, or lust; it would only be about getting things he wanted. And Mickey couldn’t fucking stand that. 

So he kissed him. And it felt so fucking good. Even just that tiny rough kiss, it felt like everything inside of Mickey’s body had turned to mush and then been electrified back to life in an instant. Life like he’d never felt it before. Like he’d never felt a damn thing in this life until he’d felt Ian’s lips against his. And he sure in the fuck wasn’t a straight dude anymore. 

He was gay as fuck that night. He was so fucking gay against Ian’s lips on that couch. And under his fingertips. And with his dick in his ass. So many fucking times there was no way in hell Mickey was about to get up with his jello legs and that throbbing overstimulation running ragged through his entire fucking body. So he just passed out there. On the couch. Naked. With Ian’s naked body wrapped around him. And he didn’t fucking care. Because he was just a big old ‘mo. And so was the lanky ginger prick tangled in his limbs. And all of a sudden it felt so fucking fine. It felt like he could be himself. He could want the things he wanted. And he could get them. He could have all of them. Just from that damn ginger who was breathing on his neck but it felt like everything he wanted to sleep with every night for the rest of his life. Or as soon as he got the fuck out of the Milkovich house anyway. 

Then he was too fucking gay and too fucking stupid the next morning. He was too fucking stupid and careless because all he wanted, all he could focus on, was having that idiot in him and against him. All he wanted for his fucking eighteenth birthday was one more round. And his fucking beads but the idiot didn’t want it, so Mickey didn’t press it, it was fucking embarrassing as fuck to be too gay for a gay ginger who probably would have done it if Mickey ordered him room service after.

Fuck room service. Fuck Ben-Wa beads. 

Fuck. Idiot’s still lookin’ at him, “fuck you lookin’ at?”

“You’re gorgeous,” he blurts it like he’s afraid he’ll get punched for saying it.

And Mickey does want to punch him for being so fucking stupid to think that, “fuck you.”

“Well I guess whoever gets their dick to work first…”

“Fair enough. Ain’t gonna happen tonight. So go the fuck to sleep. You gotta work tomorrow?”

“Yeah. But not until noon.”

“Well that’s like nine hours from now. And you probably gotta do like two hours of primping first, huh? So close your fuckin’ eyes. I’ll still be here in the mornin’,” the dope keeps looking at him like he doesn’t believe he’s real, “get your damn pussy off the bed, you can spoon the hell out of me,” feeling a smirk rising.

There’s not a moment’s hesitation. Lifting the cat to set her on the far side as he scoots closer to Mickey and Mickey rolls to his shoulder. Arms around him, breath on his neck. Fuck, that feels good. That feels almost like a reason to be sober sometimes. Fuck, feeling this without any booze in his blood. That’d be good, it’d be so good. But fuck, then the images would rise and the echoes in his ears and the feeling in his bones. And the knowing, the knowing he’ll never be the same. He’ll never be what he used to be. He’ll never be worth a damn dime ‘cause he can’t even fuckin’ see in one eye. The fuck’s he going to do with his life now? Walmart doesn’t even have greeters anymore. It ain’t like he wants to be one hundred percent disabled, then he can’t have a job if he wants the shit benefits from the government. The government who sent him over there in the first place, and then sent him back again. And again. And again until they couldn’t anymore. And it’s not like he cared, life over there was simple. It was more like his childhood. Survive or don’t. Choice was his. But now, here? Fuck, it’s complicated. 

And sometimes he yearns for the simplicity of it. The choice was always survival when he was young, ‘cause he had a future. He would someday get out of that house and find a way to survive. Maybe not happiness, maybe not thrive. But he’d still find a way to keep his damn head above water. And over there it was simple. It was survive to keep others alive. It was his job to keep watch over his guys and he always sent them the fuck home in one piece. Those fucking IEDs, fuck those. Those weren’t his fault. He couldn’t do a damn thing about those. But fuck, he should have seen it. He should have felt it. Felt that something was off. Known that something was off. Fuck.

What the fuck’s it matter if he survives now anyway? He’s got nothing. All he’s going to do if he stays here with the one fucking person on this planet that has always looked at him like he’s worth something, all he’ll end up doing is dragging him down too. He’s got a shit diagnosis and he probably went through some serious fucking hell in the joint, but now he’s got his life together. He’s got his jobs and his cat and a roof over his head, he’s got independence. And fuck, it looks a lot like stability.

But Mickey? Mickey’s a fucking homeless veteran with a drinking problem. And the occasional needle in his arm. What the fuck could he possibly offer Ian? He sticks around, he’ll turn him into Monica. The thing he’s trying so hard not to become. 

Fuck. He’ll sleep in the comfy bed, he’ll take the warmth and the fucking fire in his bloodstream. And when he wakes up in the mid afternoon tomorrow and Ian is at work, he’ll take off. The guy deserves better. He always has. Fucker always will.

  



	16. You're The Toxic One?

  


You’re The Toxic One?

“I, um,” he wipes his fingers across the cloth napkin on his leg, looking across the counter at Mandy, “I saw Mickey.”

“You did?” surprise mingling with concern, “where? How was he? Did you talk to him?”

“Yeah. I mean, I thought, he…” his voice trails off and he doesn’t know how to explain any of it. He was gone when Ian got home from work. He’d still been in bed when he left. He spent the night murmuring and sweating. Half fighting Ian’s grasp and then sinking into it like he never wanted to leave. And then he was gone. Without a trace. Leaving Ian questioning his meds again, “I thought he was staying with you?”

“He was. He,” her voice drops and her eyes scan over to make sure Nadiya is still busy with Chester, “he scared Nadiya when she tried to wake him. I thought maybe he went back out to California or something. I don’t… I couldn’t get a hold of him. Thought he’d come back when he was ready. I’m not mad at him. If you see him again… I just,” her eyes fill, gaze dropping, “Nadiya’s not mad. She’s not scared. She misses him. If you see him…”

“Fuck,” he sighs under his breath, watching his hand as it rises to reach for hers, landing on top of it with a squeeze, “I thought he’d still be here when I got home. He came in the store when I was working. And I guess, I don’t know, he looked like shit so I got him to come over and eat, shower, sleep. But then he was just gone. Shit, Mandy I thought it was a delusion,” he half-laughs.

“A hallucination of Mickey,” her glossy eyes meet his, “I guess it’d be easy to tell if he was real or not. Between his smell and his foul mouth,” she shrugs.

It’s the closest they’ve come to making light of his diagnosis. He feels himself smile, “yeah, and how fucking warm he is.”

“That used to come in handy when we were kids. He hated it, but I’d burrow my face into his armpit when the house was so cold. The wind howling through the single paned glass in the winter, I’d sneak in his room and stick my frozen nose in his armpit.”

“Maybe that’s why he always startles awake when someone touches him.”

“Yeah,” but the smile is starting to fade. They both know it’s bullshit. He startles awake because of the monster, the monster that Ian killed. He killed him only to send all three of them hurling down a path of uneasiness. Fuck, it’s been nothing more than stormy seas and heavy grey clouds ever since. For all of them. 

“If I could go back…”

“No,” her hand turns in his, gripping tight, “don’t do that. None of this is your fault Ian. None of it. Okay?”

He can’t hold eye contact with her. But he manages a nod. 

“Focus on now. Right? When was he here?”

“Last week. Why didn’t you tell me about his eye?”

She shrugs, her turn to drop eye contact, those gorgeous baby blues landing on her daughter again, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“A medical discharge…”

“Sucks. Yeah. I know. He found a place he fit in, he found some self-worth. And he was good at the job. He was all set to reenlist too. Not like he’d ever admit it, that he was good at something, but he flew us out to visit as often as he could. And I saw all the certificates, I found them when I was snooping through his stuff. He had so many. And it’s not like he’d ever frame them, or mount his medals on his dress uniform or anything. But,” she sighs, her fingers have loosened on his, but they’ve remained there, “it was nice to see him making his own way in life, even if it wasn’t the easiest route. He was, I don’t know, content,” her eyes lock onto his suddenly and they’re lit with intensity, “do you love him?” 

They’ve never talked about it. She’d be stupid if she didn’t realize Ian was fixated on Mickey the whole time he was in prison, asking about him every thirty seconds every time she visited. But they’ve never openly talked about any of it, “yeah,” he sighs it, like it’s the most obvious thing about him, and it always has been. ‘Does he get that look in his eye when he’s with you?’ 

Yes. Always, “it never would have worked anyway. He was terrified of your dad finding out. And I was just so fucking blind to all of it. Until I saw it, even after what he did to you, I still just… fuck, I don’t know. It’s like one of those things you just can’t believe until you see. And you used to act like it was no big deal, just another day. But Mandy,” his hand is clamping down on hers and it might be painful by now, “I couldn’t see it for the truth of it. You couldn’t talk about it openly, it’s hard to put words on that. And I get it, he was still your father. He raised you guys to think it was normal. That all of the shit he put you through was normal. He was still the only reason you guys had a roof over your heads and were together instead of in the system. But I just… fuck, I couldn’t let him walk out of there that day. I looked at him, I looked in his eyes after what he,” his voice chokes off.

A tear is trailing down Mandy’s cheek and he watches his hand reach out to wipe it. He’s not even sure how much she knows of that day, of before the trigger was pulled, “Terry walked in on us fucking,” being certain to keep his voice down, Nadiya doesn’t need to hear a word of this, “he beat the hell out of Mickey, called over a hooker to fuck him straight. But when it wasn’t working, I guess she just took matters into her own hands. I don’t know what the hell she did to Mickey, but he lost consciousness again, and then she attacked your dad. They struggled over the gun and he was gaining control, I hit him with the baseball bat. He was out,” he wipes another tear. 

This sucks, it hurts, it’s shaking in his guts and his heart is stuck in his throat. But she needs to know, she needs to hear it from him, “the whore got dressed and took off. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if he was dead, and Mickey was still out, and then Terry’s eyes opened. I had the gun in my hand already, and I don’t know. It’s like I looked at his eyes and I saw him for what he was. I saw him for the nightmares he put his children through. I saw the pain in Mickey’s eyes when he looked at me, when he looked at me and he was about to get raped. And I was helpless to it. And he was helpless to it. And it felt so fucking,” now he can feel his own tears falling uncontrollably from the corners of his eyes, “horrible. It felt fucking horrible. I didn’t think about what came next, I didn’t think about him being your only parent, all I could think about was stopping him from hurting you guys ever again,” his free hand is shaking when it rises for her cheek again. 

She stops it midair, taking a firm grasp and guiding it to her lips instead. Holding it there as she breathes and chokes on silent tears, her eyes lingering on his face through the blur of pain, the shield of regret, the fog of so many years of helplessness. 

“I am so sorry,” he whispers.

“No, please don’t be sorry Ian. Please. You did what you felt you had to do, and you paid for it. You did your time and you,” her voice breaks. Getting up suddenly, making her way around the counter to wrap her arms around his chest, resting her chin on his shoulder, “what would have happened to us anyway? If he had lived? He’d have beat Mickey to death after he killed you. He’d have ended up in the can again, and I’d still have been fostered. So, short of some miracle that he’d have some kind of revelation about his ways and reform after being knocked off his ass by a whore and fag,” she half laughs through the tears, “I’m glad you are alive. And you are part of my life. And you are part of my daughter’s life. And Mickey,” sighing heavily, “I don’t know. I’m glad he never got raped. And he’s still alive. Or he was a week ago anyway. Damnit, I need to find him before it gets any colder out.”

————

He takes the steps slowly, apprehensively. Knowing exactly where Mickey is, what he’s doing, how much he’s already had to drink. He just doesn’t know why he left. Or if he wants to see Ian again. 

All the breath in his body leaves in one exhale as his eyes land on Mickey’s. And Mickey’s narrow, becoming nothing more than slits in his face as he watches Ian. Silence. Silence is never good with this guy. 

Fuck. Staring for a long moment before shaking his head. Turning back to his task at hand. His task of shooting a doll full of lead. Some disgusting disfigured doll that he probably grabbed out of a dumpster. 

Watching, staying silent as he fires three rounds without pause. A deep breath, his shoulders strong. Without being able to see his face, Ian knows his eyes are closed. They’re closed right now as he takes a deep breath. And the breath shakes. He knows his jaw is clenched and he’s breathing through flared nostrils. 

How many times has Ian watched Mickey shoot guns? How many summer days had they spent up here shooting shit and throwing rocks? His obstacle course, the one Mickey set up for him. The most fucking romantic gesture he’s ever received. He feels himself smiling at the memory. Everything was so fucking easy back then. It was so simple and he had himself convinced it was so complicated. It was so complicated to be in love with a piece of Southside trash hiding in the closet. In love with a guy that he was convinced didn’t love him back. He was banging Ned for the things the guy gave him, but those things, they were nothing compared to what Mickey gave him. Mickey gave him love. Blind, beautiful, unquestionable love. Mickey was walking a fucking tightrope with no safety net just by being around Ian, even in hiding, and after they’d been caught twice. And he kept coming back. Going to juvie both times to protect them both from Terry’s wrath that his son was a fag. 

And he didn’t kill Frank. Why? Because he loved Ian. And Ian didn’t want Frank dead.

Ian did kill Terry. Mickey didn’t want Terry dead. Fuck, maybe he just wanted Terry to understand. To understand that different wasn’t a bad thing, that liking what he liked should have been okay, it should have been just fine with his father, his father should have loved him anyway. But what did Mickey know of love anyway? 

“What was your mom like?” well that was fucking stupid.

“Fuck you.”

“I know. I just… you’ve never said anything about her. I just…”

“You suck at small talk,” some tension seems to have rolled off his shoulders. Not turning to look at Ian, not dropping his stance just yet, the gun still aimed perfectly at the doll, “she had a favorite wooden spoon. And it wasn’t for cooking.”

“Jesus,” so what did Mickey know of love? Nothing more than what his siblings could offer. And nothing more than Ian offered. He didn’t realize he was sitting down, but his butt hits the ground. 

“The fuck you come back here for? To ask me about my dead mom? What next Gallagher? Wanna talk about my dead dad?” he fires the gun. Blasting through the doll’s head in an explosion of plastic.

“If you’re ready.”

“Fuck you,” he lowers the gun only to grab the bottle. Tipping it back until it’s empty. 

And he wants to say, ‘whenever you’re ready,’ but he doesn’t. Instead, “I didn’t think you’d leave.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”

“Why would you?” anger creeping into his tone. Feeling it rising up his spine, clenching his fists, “why would you leave without saying goodbye? You could have at least said goodbye instead of being a fucking pussy about it. Fuck,” his stomach is starting to do flips and his breath is cutting off in his throat. 

“You want me to say goodbye?”

“No. I want you to look at me. At least fucking look at me. At least fucking look at me so I know I’m not up here talking to a fucking delusion. I saw it Mick, I saw the explosion. I was in the psych ward after I OD’ed, and I saw it. I saw you taking someone’s hand out of the rubble. Is that when it happened Mick? Your eye. The shrapnel in your arm. Your leg. Is that what happened? A bomb, an IED? Fuck. You were always in my hallucinations. Always. And I just thought it was just another fucking trick my mind was playing on me. But then I saw you, I saw…”

“What the fuck do you want from me Gallagher?!” he spins suddenly, stalking over towards where Ian is sitting. Leaning down to eye level, “you want this, huh? You want me to fuckin’ look at you? You want to see this? This?!” he opens his eyes wide and Ian can’t look away, knowing he wants the reaction now. He wants him to stare or avert, but he won’t, “you want me to say goodbye instead of being a fucking pussy? How many fucking times in one life can someone say goodbye to you before you fucking get it? You stupid stubborn prick. You don’t want me, you don’t want this. You might think you want the seventeen year old version of me. But that ain’t me anymore. You don’t fuckin’ know me anymore. All that matters,” his voice dropping back down to a normal conversational level as his eye contact lingers on Ian’s, “all you need to know, is that I am still just as fucking toxic as I ever was. And you need to stay the fuck away from me.”

He moves quick for a drunk guy with a limp. Down to the next level before Ian even gets to his feet. Blood rushing in his ears, heart thudding hard against his ribcage. He’s not walking away. He’s not getting out of this so easily. 

“You’re toxic?! You’re the toxic one?!” shouting after him as he stumbles across the courtyard in the tall grass dying off with the onset of Winter in the air, the broken concrete beneath his feet, “Jesus fucking Christ Mick, I killed your father! I shot him in the fucking face and I’d do it again the same fucking way if I could go back! I’d do it the same fucking way a million times over if it meant he never got a chance to hurt you again. If he never got to fag bash you, or force a Russian whore on you, or pistol whip you. If it meant he never got to slam his fists into your ribs and tell you how useless and disgusting you are. Every fucking time. Every single fucking time, I’d do it the same fucking way.”

He stops moving. His hand has found his face, palms rubbing into his eyes as he tips his head skyward.

“And you’re the toxic one?” his voice is strangely calm, and he feels an odd relief rolling over him. Admitting that to himself for the first time, admitting that to someone else for the first time. Admitting that he’s fucking glad he did what he did. 

“Fuck you,” it’s barely above a whisper. 

“What? I didn’t fucking hear you!” he wants his anger. He wants the seventeen year old who was never afraid to throw a punch. Or chew someone’s ass. He wants that passionate piece of fucking trash that never knew when to shut up. That never fucking apologized and never fucking showed any shame for who he was, “I didn’t fucking hear you Mick! I want to know, I want to know why you’re the toxic one.”

The right hook happens fast and the sting plasters his eyes shut for just brief moment before the Southside in him takes over and swings back. Grabbing a fistful of Mickey’s coat and throwing as many wild haymakers as he can. Feeling every single one of them returned with the exact amount of anger he was hoping for. 

If Mickey wasn’t so fucking drunk Ian would already be on his back. But he’s drunk enough and blind in one eye, the advantage is clearly Ian’s. Fuck, before Mickey was trained in hand-to-hand combat, this still would have been over already. 

“You’re pulling punches,” he hears himself shout at Mickey as his arms come up to box in his face. The taste of blood is getting stale and the anger is starting to lessen in his chest. 

“So are you fuckface,” gripping into Ian’s collar as he sweeps his legs out from under him. Landing in a pile on the broken concrete and dead grass. His fucking hand behind his head when it contacts the ground. Fucker. Ready to punch Ian in the face, but unwilling to do any real damage.

“You’re an ass,” huffing out between ragged breaths.

“So are you,” barely winded, and starting to laugh. 

“I fucking hate you,” rolling to his shoulder, throwing an arm over Mickey’s chest and leaning over him.

“I hate you too firecrotch,” that fucking smirk rising with a twinkle in his eye. Hand lifting, sliding cold fingers through Ian’s hair. It only takes a half-cocked brow before Ian is diving in, crashing into his lips. The language they’ve always spoken. The only one they’ve ever known.

  



	17. One Regret

  


One Regret

Fuck, his lips are sore and his back is sore and his head is starting to clear when Ian finally pulls away and tucks his head into Mickey’s chest. The sky is greying and his heart is slowing. His palms are sweating and he knows he should talk. But he sucks at talking when it comes to the important shit. He always has. What the fuck words are there for any of that shit? And how the fuck does Gallagher just blurt that shit out and make it sound like it’s all just okay? 

Fuck, “I have twenty-four confirmed kills. And every single one of them was a split second decision. They weren’t all kill or be killed. They weren’t all imminent danger. One guy was just some stupid fuck tryin’ to cause an uprising or some shit. I don’t even know, I just shot when I was told to. And sometimes just when I had to. Twenty-two men. Two women. I don’t regret a single fucking shot fired. Suicide bombers, shitheads with their aim locked onto my guys.”

Ian’s hair is soft under his fingers, and his body is warm against the cooling of the night air, “Every single time I shot I felt it. I felt the rifle under my finger, against my cheek, butted up to my shoulder. Fiberglass, aluminum and death. Even the women, who’s eyes I’ll never fuckin’ forget, I don’t regret it. I have plenty, sure, plenty of regrets from my time in. I fuckin’ failed in worse ways than I succeeded. Just like fuckin’ always,” he sighs, leans his face towards the top of Ian’s head and takes a long whiff of his hair, “I regret one kill. There is one kill that I regret. It’s the time I didn’t pull the fucking trigger. The time you did.”

His stupid eyes are stinging when Ian lifts his head to look at him, “Mick, you were…”

“Fuckin’ passed out on the couch. I know. It wasn’t your burden to carry man. I was fifteen when I saw him walk out of Mandy’s room in the middle of the night. Zipping his pants and belching. He didn’t see me standin’ there. I grabbed a gun out of the safe. I spent the rest of the night there, sitting on the edge of the table, watching her door. Promising myself that if he went for it again, I’d put a bullet in his head. I spent the next two weeks sittin’ there, waiting. Fuck,” his voice shakes and his eyes water, fingers rising to grind, push it back. Men don’t cry, “I fuckin’ convinced myself it wasn’t real, it hadn’t happened. If it didn’t happen again in those two weeks, then, fuck, maybe he just thought her bedroom was the bathroom. Stumbled in there and pissed on her floor. Wouldn’t be the first time he did that shit. Jesus Christ when I was ten he pissed on the foot of my bed thinking it was the toilet. Fuck,” his fingers grinding into his lids, making him completely blind to anything beyond the swirls and sparks in his lids even once he stops rubbing.

“I don’t know how many times I cleaned piss off the floor. All of us did,” deep breath, “I convinced myself that she was fine. She was okay. She could handle herself and if she couldn’t, she’d tell me. She never had a fuckin’ problem sending us after her problems before. Fuck, fuck, then she started changing. She started acting like she wanted to fucking disappear and she didn’t know how. And I fucking ignored it. I pretended it was normal teen girl shit. Then I was in fucking juvie when he did it. She told me one night when she was so fucking high I thought she was kidding. I thought she had to be fucking kidding. ‘Cause who the fuck knocks up their daughter?” his voice is trembling and so are his hands as they make contact with his eyes again, “fuck. Then she was spending so much time with your shithead brother. Fuck, I sat outside his door. So many fucking times. I sat there, at ready, finger on the trigger. And every single fucking time I pussed out. I fuckin’ walked away as soon as I heard him staggering around in there. I couldn’t fucking do it,” his fists clench uncontrollably against his face, what’s he going to punch now? Ian’s face again? The ground? Get up and stalk over to the building, punch the brick and mortar or drywall disintegrating to dust? 

What are you going to do? What are you going to fucking do? You always were a useless piece of shit. You always will be. You’ll never amount to anything. You’ll never be able to protect her. You’ll never be able to protect yourself. Just like you never could protect him. Just like you failed at protecting them. You will always be a failure. Not a single medal or piece of fucking paper can change that. 

“Fuck!” he shouts it. As loud as he can under half of Ian’s body weight, the fog of whiskey, and the onslaught of tears, frustration clouding his chest.

And fuck him. Fuck him for just staying exactly where he is. Lingering over Mickey like he can fucking shield him from his failings. Like he can fucking soften the harshness of reality, of the world that just keeps getting bigger and worse and more terrifying with every single breath Mickey takes. Like the feel of his chest against Mickey’s, and his hands sliding under his shoulders, and his breath all fucking soft against his cheek can make it all okay. Like pulling him closer and holding him tighter can erase all of that shit. Like his warm soft lips meeting Mickey’s neck can make a fucking difference.

Fuck him. Fuck him for pulling the trigger. Fuck him for doing the one thing that Mickey couldn’t fucking do. The one thing that could have made all the fucking difference in the world.

  



	18. Not Tonight

  


Not Tonight

He’s been sweating and shivering and talking in his sleep. He’s been puking and snotting and looking around the room like he can’t figure out where the fuck he is. And he can’t figure out who or what he wants to punch to fight his way out of this. 

For three days.

The dependence on alcohol was worse than Ian thought. He would have had to dry out on deployments, but he’s been on home turf for over a year now. That’s long enough to be wicked withdrawals. 

He hasn’t said a damn word either. Not a single complaint. Not that Ian expected it. The guy would never in his life admit to feeling shitty or being in pain. He’s never cared about his own wellbeing, why would he start now?

On the fourth day when Ian gets home, he’s out of bed. Sitting on the couch, still looking rough around the edges, but alive. His eyes rise to meet Ian’s when he walks through the door, “hey.”

Simple. It’s so fucking simple, and it’s the most incredible greeting Ian has ever had, “hey,” lifting Chester when she plants her front paws on his thighs, rubbing his chin along the top of her head, “how you feelin’?”

Waving him off with his hand and a head cocked toward the oven, “put your Thursday dish in there. Fuck man, your freezer is hyper-organized huh? All labeled, fuckin’ cook temp and time and shit,” an amused smile is rising on his gorgeous face.

“You eating with me tonight?”

“Fuck,” shaky fingers rising to rub his eyes, “I don’t know.”

“No rush. I’ll just make you a cup of broth.”

“Yeah why don’t you throw a couple shots of vodka in there?” eyebrow arched, “fuck,” blinking a few times, “I knew a guy who used to drink a pint of vodka every single morning, chase it with a few sips of orange juice and head out for training. If command knew that shit,” he shakes his head with amusement, “fuckever,” shrugging it off, “how was your day?”

“Same old,” setting the cat down to untie his shoes. She takes off for Mickey. Immediately making herself comfortable spread across his lap. The little traitor that she is. But of course she’d love him. He’s hard not to.

“You, ah,” his fingers are running back and forth between Chester’s ears, refusing to make eye contact, “tattle on me to Mandy yet?”  
“Tattle,” he snorts, making his way to the kitchen to set his place at the counter. Dishes, glass of water, pills, “I told her you were alive,” one, two, three pills and a vitamin, “she wants you to know she’s not mad or upset. That Nadiya’s not scared, she misses you. And she…”

“She tell you what I did?”

“She said you scared Nadiya when she woke you up. But she’s fine Mick. She wants…”

A choked off laugh comes out of his mouth as his fingers meet his eyes again, “fuck her. I choked her. I woke up with my hand clamped down on her throat. She was,” he trails off, breath hitching in his chest, “her eyes. I fuckin’ choked her. She’s never going to trust me again.”

“She will,” silverware, napkin. Hands wiping on his pants, “kids are resilient Mick. She loves you.”

He can’t look over at him. Listening to his hitched breath and his fingers grinding into his eyes. That is a noise that he could have forgotten about. That squishing and sloshing that makes his stomach clench. 

Cup of water. Broth base. Microwave. Fuck it. There’s leftover chicken breast in the fridge. There are carrots and celery. Onion. And his hands need something to do while he waits. While he waits for Mickey to catch his breath. And he doesn’t pressure him. And he doesn’t push him. Mickey’s head is a barrage of images and noises that he can’t bear to remember and he can’t seem to forget. And there is nothing that Ian can say or do right now to make it any easier. Except stand here. Be here. Listen. Wait. 

It’s all in the pot and the oven timer is going off. Sometimes he forgets to use hot pads. Sometimes he touches the pan with the tip of his finger. Just to be sure. Just to know he’s still capable of feeling. 

But not tonight. 

Cat food. Tapping the edge of the can. He’s not used to fighting for her attention. Normally the sound of the plastic lid on the can is all it takes. Normally she hears that release of suction and she’s rubbing his ankles and running for her dish. 

Tapping the can again. She’s busy. 

He plops the helping in her dish, she’ll get there when she’s ready. And right now, she’s sitting on Mickey’s lap facing him. She’s watching him even though his hands are hiding his eyes. When he removes them, when he blinks at the fog he created, and the tears that were created for him though he’d never admit they existed; she leans her nose in to touch to the tip of his.

“Fuck you lookin’ at Chester,” he grunts. And can’t resist scratching her ears. And his body can’t resist the calm that takes over, the warmth and comfort that only a furry nonjudgmental friend can offer. 

Neither one of them find their way to dinner until Ian is already doing the dishes from his own meal. 

“Fuck’s this firecrotch? You said broth.”

“Yeah, that plus a few things.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Shut up and eat it. Take it slow.”

“Fuck you think I am? An amateur? Fuck.”

Space. Space is hard to give. When Ian feels like at any moment he’ll disappear. He’ll turn his head to realize he’s been talking to a ghost of his past. He wants to touch him, just reach out and touch him every single moment to remind him, to know, to be certain he’s real. He’s here. He hasn’t left yet. 

Ian didn’t ask him to dry out. Didn’t ask him to detox. Mickey didn’t say anything about it. No announcing his goal, or admitting his problem. No asking if Ian had his back through this. No telling him a reason, no kind of affirmation of love, of wanting to get sober and give them a chance together. 

And it’s not weird. It’s not weird to go about his usual routine with Mickey in the room. With him sitting on the couch after his careful half hour of television is watched and he’s getting lost in the routine. Breathing, posing, stretching. Feeling his body working the way it should. Feeling every part of his body as a whole. The satisfaction of knowing he still has the control. He may have lost the control of his mind, but his body, his body is still his. 

It’s his and when he feels Mickey’s eyes on it, and the goosebumps rise even through the sweat that’s started rising on his skin; fuck, it’s Mickey’s too. It’s still Mickey’s. He feels his lips tugging into a contented smile. If only he could convince his dick to belong to Mickey again. Damn thing never did work for anyone else anyway. Not the way it did for Mickey. The only times in his life he’s ever had hard-ons so hard they were painful were either because of Mickey’s presence or because of his torrid dreams of Mickey’s horrendously gorgeous flesh. His dick was never that hard for anyone else he’s been with. It always performed, still acted interested in his other partners even when his mind wasn’t necessarily in it. He was a fucking teenager, or course it was easy to get stiff. But as soon as he’d been inside Mickey for the first time, it was like his dick was convinced there would never be anything that could ever compare. 

It was the kiss that sealed it for his brain. That cocky smirk, walking away flipping him the bird. And his mind belonged to Mickey as well. His mind was fully convinced that Mickey was in it. That he was just as in it as Ian was. And he was the only thing Ian ever wanted again. 

————

Falling into bed beside him. He’s fucking exhausted. These last few nights, constantly on edge, waiting for another round of vomit. Or a sign of something worse. A seizure or hallucinations. Any sign that he’d need to get him to a clinic as quickly as possible. 

Not tonight. He bypasses the novel waiting for him on the bedside table. Settling in on his side, eyes focusing on Mick’s immediately, sliding his hand over Chester’s back to slip his fingers between Mickey’s. Locked together over her softness and vibration of her purr. 

He doesn’t have to say a fucking word. He doesn’t have to acknowledge the help and support. He doesn’t have to thank or apologize. All he needs to do is stay.

  



	19. Men Do Cry

  


Men Do Cry

“Uncle Mickey!” she’s full tilt as soon as she sees him. Running in that haphazard way that children run when their feet are too big for their bodies and they’ve just had a growth spurt and haven’t figured out what to do with the extra height yet. She throws her body against him without hesitation. Wrapping her arms around his neck when he lifts her feet off the ground. 

Fuck. Fuck. Men don’t cry. 

This little shit. She’s just like her mom. Can’t figure out how to stop loving someone once she starts. Even when they don’t deserve her love. 

Men don’t cry.

But her arms are tight around his shoulders, her legs have wrapped around his waist and her hair is tickling his nose. And she’s whispering, “I missed you,” just like she always did when they saw each other again after a deployment. Mickey wasn’t about to set foot in Chicago, but he flew the two of them out to California every pre-deployment leave and every post-deployment leave. They’d stay in Palm Springs with Lydia, they took a weekend trip to the San Diego Zoo and SeaWorld. They went to a Hawks game when they played the Ducks. They went to the beach and camped on the coast. They did so many things that a normal Southside kid could only ever dream of. But all she ever wanted, all the little girl ever asked for was to sit on Uncle Mickey’s shoulders. Never asked about Disneyland or swimming with dolphins. She asked for handholding and bedtime stories. 

The greatest thing he could ever do for her was love her. 

Fuck it. Men do cry. They cry like little bitches and try to hide it in the shoulder of their niece. 

Her hands start rubbing little circles on his back and her face turns to be buried in his neck, “I love you,” she tells him in a whisper.

“I love you too,” he responds with thickness in his voice and he squeezes her bony body tighter, “I’m sorry birdie. I’m sorry I scared you. And I’m sorry I couldn’t face you to apologize sooner. I should have.”

“It’s okay. Mommy said it wasn’t my fault. She said not to wake you up when you’re sleeping. Even if it’s already noon and half the day is over and we only have a few hours left to play,” she sighs heavily into his neck.

Fuckin’ kid. His gasp is muffled in her shoulder and his eyes don’t have to be open to know that Mandy is approaching. She’s always known to make some noise, to make herself known as she nears. Even when they were teenagers. All it took was one startled elbow connecting with her face. Her quiet breathy whistle before her body makes contact. Arms encircling them both, planting three quick kisses on his exposed cheek before her cold fucking nose makes contact with his ear. 

And if the kid couldn’t hear him, he’d say, “fuckin’ nose,” and maybe he did. And maybe it’s okay. Because he can’t say the things he wants to say right now. And little birdie knows not to repeat anything Uncle Mickey says anyway.

  



	20. Stubborn Prick

  


Stubborn Prick

“Fuck you want me to do? Fucking walk some damn dog I don’t even know when I can’t fuckin’ see in one eye? That sounds real fuckin’ safe man.”

Stubborn prick, “yeah. But I’ll be there too. The dog is calm, she’s sweet, she’s leash trained and,” he won’t say it. He won’t say she’s a trained service dog who’s owner passed away. He won’t tell Mickey that she was brought to the shelter last week and she’s been withdrawn and depressed and purposeless. He won’t tell him that his entire goal for this meeting is to make Mickey fall madly in love with this dog who needs him just as much as he needs her, “just come along. It’s not that bad out for…”

“For a fuckin’ gloomy ass Winter day? Fuck snow. Only nice thing about being stationed in 29 Palms, I never had to deal with snow,” the asshole is at least putting his boots on. 

Ian’s trying not to claim victory already. Mickey needs to get out. He can’t just hide in Ian’s apartment all day every day because he’s afraid he’ll start drinking again if he puts himself back in the real world, not that he’d ever admit it. Ian knows that feeling. Like the world is too much to fucking deal with and you’re better off just hiding from it than trying to face it. 

“Well, it snowed once. There was like a dusting of fucking snow on the ground in the morning and everybody was freaking out like it was the fuckin’ coolest thing they’d ever seen. Except the northerners. Fuck winter,” he’s still grumbling about it as they start off down the sidewalk, all shrugged into his jacket with a scowl like Mother Nature herself is doing this just to fuck with him. 

Ian can’t help but smile about it. And that gorgeous pink glow on his cheeks as soon as the cold takes it’s first nip at his skin. His huffy protest turning into a fine mist in the winter’s air as he grumps, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

He doesn’t respond this time. He doesn’t have to. Mickey knows exactly what he’s looking at. The rest of his life.

————

“Sandy, huh?” he’s down on one knee outside her kennel already. The door’s open but she’s lying on the bed with her chin on her paws and big eyes that are watching Mickey slowly, “yo Sandy, I wanna take you for a walk, that okay?” there’s a gentle tone to his roughness and Ian’s surprised he doesn’t ask her what the fuck she’s looking at when she lifts her head and scans him over, “I ain’t gonna make you if you don’t want to. Fuck, I’d prefer to just sit in here all fuckin’ day where it’s warm too. So ya know, if that’s cool with you maybe I’ll do that,” staying low to the ground as he starts moving towards her with his hand out, “that okay?” 

Her nose meets his hand immediately, ears perking forwards and her tail just barely lifts off the bed to half-wag. Jabbing her nose into his palm to guide his hand to her head. He runs his fingers over her ear and Ian is giving in, claiming victory as he watches Mickey’s free hand rise to rub into his good eye, thumb at his nose, and drop to her neck, “yeah that’s okay, huh?”

————

She keeps her shoulder in tight against his right leg while they walk, guiding. Exactly what Ian knew she was trained to do. Her previous owner was a man who lost a leg to a car accident. She taught him how to walk with a prosthetic. 

When Mickey sits on the bench in the dog park, she stays with him, even after she’s unleashed and Ian is tossing tennis balls for the two other dogs with them. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Mickey’s hand lands in her fur again, rubbing her ears, slipping the longer pieces of fur between his fingers. The same way he fondles Ian’s hair at night when he can’t sleep and he’s watching something in the past in his open eyelids and he can’t bear the thought of closing them but he can’t get out of bed and force himself to be alone either. So Ian pretends to sleep through it, knowing if Mickey wants to talk he will. And the stubborn asshole is more likely to take the comfort Ian can offer if he thinks he’s asleep. 

————

“So, uh, thinking I might go back down to the shelter tomorrow. That chick with the penciled-on eyebrows said they never turn down a dog-walker,” he admits when he sits on the edge of the bed. Back turned to Ian, rubbing some kind of cream into the soles of his feet that are sloughing skin off like a damn snake and the chunks Ian finds in the sheets are the size of fucking potato chips and Ian can take a lot of things, but that one, he shudders just thinking about. The skin on the bottom of his feet all cracked and pink and fucking painful looking and none of the creams they’ve given him have worked and they get worse when they’re trapped in winter boots staying all moist, drying up at night and fuck it must sting like a bitch to stand on them. 

“Yeah?” acting surprised…

“Oh yeah. Act all fuckin’ nonchalant about it, like it wasn’t your fuckin’ plan for me to hit it off with Sandy all along. Fuckin’ matchmaker.”

“So it worked?” feeling a smile creeping into the corners of his lips.

“Fuck you, it worked,” turning to look over his shoulder, “come on, give me that smug little fuckin’ smile,” with an arched brow, “like you know me better than I know me or some shit.”

And he does. And all it takes is that half-cocked nod before he’s getting to his knees and leaning across the space between them. Crashing into his lips, hands sliding through his hair to draw him as close as humanly possible. 

————

“Fuck, Gallgher,” a whispered groan towards the ceiling as he slides his tongue over the head of Mickey’s perfect dick. Taking the last drop of cum, before his lips make quick work of kissing a trail up his incredibly gorgeous body. Tucking his head into his chest and letting his weight down on top of him, “you don’t gotta fucking do that you know?”

“Want to.”

His hands find Ian’s hair immediately.

They haven’t really gotten very physical. A few blow jobs once the whiskey dick went away. Ian hasn’t admitted yet, “I have viagra. But it just,” sighing, pressing another kiss into his bare skin, “there’s already so much shit in my body that doesn’t belong there, I just…”

When he doesn’t finish the sentence Mickey tilts his face to kiss the top of his head, “I get it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I want to fuck you every single time I look at you honestly. But I, fuck, I don’t know. I had a boyfriend for a little while, I took the viagra once and had a fucking panic attack. I don’t know if it was the pill or the situation or,” his voice falls to a mumble when he admits, “memories.”

“Memories of?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah you do.”

His hands are gentle and his voice is gentle. And fuck, his body is so fucking warm. His breath is trailing through Ian’s hair and tingling down his spine, “you. The couch. The feel of you, the night before. Then the door and his voice. And his words. His gun. Her. The bat. The gunshot. And a moment of wondering where that bullet ended up. If it ended up in your skull. If it was in the ceiling. If I hit him when he pulled the trigger and it ended up… fuck, I’m lucky it didn’t end up in your body Mick,” Ian’s fingers are starting to press their swirled prints into Mickey’s shoulders but he can’t let up, “then in prison. I, um, fuck. You always made it sound like juvie was nothing. It wasn’t nothing. And then prison. And the disorder rising when I was locked up. And you were right, about finding out when you’re gay. They didn’t let up. I just…” his voice trails off. 

Turning to rest his ear against Mickey’s heart. Mickey’s beautiful heart that has still found a way to love Ian. After all this time and all this distance. 

“It all just,” he’s sure his fingertips are white against Mickey’s flesh, “changes things.”

He’s silent for a long moment, stroking Ian’s hair and breathing softly, “so you’re telling me it’s a mental block?”

“No. It’s the antipsychotics. It’s one of the side effects.”

“Whatever you say firecrotch.”

Stubborn asshole, “I could try bottoming.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Anyone can try bottoming. It’s wanting to bottom…”

“I want to,” insisting.

He’s met with a sigh, and hands grasping his jaw, forcing his face out of his resting place. Forcing eye contact with those breathtaking promises written across a summer sky, “not tonight. If you got a mental block over sex, then we’ll work on it. We’ll start slow. It ain’t like we ain’t got time.”

“I don’t have a mental block Mick, that’s not what it is.”

He rolls his eyes, “okay then take your fuckin’ viagra and fuck the shit out of me.”

“No,” immediately feeling his jaw set and his eyes narrow.

“You think I’m a stubborn fuck? You’re just as bad. If not worse. You wanna fuck me, do it. You want me to fuck you, sure. But it ain’t happening tonight. And I ain’t doin’ it unless I know you’re going to enjoy the hell out of it. Only way you’re going to enjoy it is if we get your head on straight. So I’m not fucking kidding when I say start slow,” his eyebrows rise and his hand moves to Ian’s chin, guiding him closer to his face, “got it?”

“Yeah,” meeting those lips. Those lips that start a wildfire in Ian’s chest and damn it if he can put it out. 

————

Ian startles awake to the sound of rushing movement beside him. Opening his eyes to the sight of Mickey crouched on the bed, his eyes wide open but he’s sound asleep. He’s leaning half over Ian and whispering what sounds like coordinates. And mission orders. 

“Okay Mick,” whispering gently, “how about you get some sleep first though? Now’s the time to sleep, alright?”

Eyes remaining open, settling back into the mattress, on his side facing Ian. Eyes close. Breathing evens out. And his body sinks into the bed. 

Ian lies still, watching his face, his perfectly structured face. Wondering how it is that with the scar, he’s just that much more to look at. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. 

When he’s certain he’s back into the blankness of sleep, he reaches out gently tracing down his shoulder, his arm with shrapnel embedded in it, and into his hand. 

“I love you,” whispering across the little space between them. 

————

Dinner’s in the oven, veggies steaming on the stovetop, places set at the counter. Mickey has adjusted his schedule to fit Ian’s. They eat breakfast and dinner together every day. Or just has built his schedule around Ian is more like it. Days and nights blurring into an alcoholic buzz, it wasn’t a very strict schedule. 

He talked him into trying some of the beginner yoga programs. He know’s he’ll never be able to run with him, but maybe swimming one of these days. He could do well in a pool. 

The yoga is more of a Mickey sits in meditation without actually meditating, just watching Ian kind of thing. Whatever floats his boat. Maybe the only calming thing is his day is sitting on the floor watching Ian. And that’s okay. 

He’s not sure what he does when Ian’s working. The apartment has been fucking spotless. Sometimes he shows up at the library, never the liquor store. He’s not going to ask him, ‘what do you do all day when I’m gone Mick?’, no matter how he asked it would make it sound like Ian thought he was useless. And he’s not. 

Sometimes Ian is glad his family is so big and so full of bullshit drama, it gives him something to talk about with Mickey that isn’t heavy, something that can skirt around their past and fill in the blanks when there needs to be words to distract. Ian hasn’t told anyone about Mickey being back yet. He can only imagine how that would play out. It makes it easier that Mandy told Mickey he’d have to come over there to spend Sunday evenings with Nadiya. Ian didn’t even put her up to it, and Mickey didn’t fight with her over it. 

The silence though. There never used to be silence with this guy. Ever. Those blank looks when he’s so far away yet still standing right in front of Ian. Those places he’ll never be able to talk about and Ian will never be able to understand. 

He’s doing it right now, isn’t he? Chester butting her head against his hand, but he’s not taking the bait.

Meditating can kiss his ass, “you go to the shelter today?”

It takes him so long to respond, Ian nearly repeats himself before he finally blinks, “hmm?”

“You go down to the shelter?”

“Yeah,” a layer of fog even over his good eye as he focuses on Ian from across the small living space, “you said you saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“You said you saw my hand. Taking a hand out of,” his voice trails off, his eyes are lingering on Ian’s face and he can’t read any expression in them.

“I thought it was just another delusion. I was in the psych ward,” he won’t admit it was after a suicide attempt. He can’t say that to Mickey, to a guy who has been through so much from the day he took his first breath on this earth, and has probably never once thought of ending it, “adjusting to meds. Sometimes the meds, certain meds just end up making the symptoms worse. But you don’t know until you try them, so it’s kind of a crapshoot,” he can’t handle the physical distance between them any longer. 

Scooting his way across the floor to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder, backs against the couch. Reaching out for his hand, pulling it into his lap, “I closed my eyes and saw your hand reaching for a hand in a pile of debris. When you pulled the hand out, it was only hand and forearm severed from the rest of the body,” reaching out to trace the letters in black ink on Mickey’s inner arm, USMC, United States Marine Corps, “same tattoo.”

“Fuck,” he jerks his arm away from Ian’s grasp like he’s burning his flesh from his bone. Hand immediately finding his face, rubbing vigorously into his eyes, “ten dead. IEDs. Fuckin’ cowards settin’ up fuckin’ bombs instead of fighting like fucking men. Fuck,” his breath shakes. Blinking rapidly, turning his hands over to look at them both, watching them as he speaks, “I dug for body parts with my bare fucking hands. Thinking I’d find someone, one of them still fucking alive. Even if Mac’s arm was severed, maybe he was still under there, maybe he was still alive. Or Doc. Or fuckin’ Gunny Beck. Fuck. Mac was my fuckin’ partner for five damn years. We spent more time with each other than we did with anyone else on the fucking planet. He used to tell all these goddamn jokes. Always tellin’ me I was too much in my own head and I needed to fucking laugh sometimes. Where the fuck else would I be if I wasn’t in my own head anyway?”

His lips curl into a smile or a grimace as his fingers rise again, “there were some wounded but not dead. But fuck, they were wishing they were dead,” his voice drops to barely above a whisper, “so was I. The more pieces I found,” his voice gets strangled in the rising emotions he’ll never admit to having. His hand drops, reaching for and grasping Ian’s. Little pulses of pressure while he gathers his thoughts, reels in the images that are certainly running themselves ragged in front of his face, “fuck. One time on the first deployment we were out on a mission. It was so fucking boring and we were so far away from the action. Just laying around in sleeping holes pretending we were ready to shoot some shit. This fuckin’ dipshit I went through boot camp with, he busted open a chem light and rubbed it on his dick. Knowing we were all decked out in full fuckin’ gear, including NVGs, he jumps out of his sleeping hole with his dick out, all lit up fucking fluorescent green, he starts doing a damn helicopter with it. Laughing his ass off ‘till that shit started burning on the tip of his dick. Then it wasn’t so funny anymore. But watching the idiot jumping around trying to wipe it off and dumping water on it, now that was funny. Fuckin’ idiot. He got busted rank for that. Not that he even had any fuckin’ rank. Moron is probably still a PVT.”

A distraction. Talk about an easy memory to avoid the hard ones. 

“Fuck,” his head turns suddenly, meeting Ian’s gaze, “how the fuck did you see that?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that?” bringing his hand up to press a kiss against it.

“I don’t know. ‘Cause apparently you’re a fuckin’ psychic or some shit. So maybe you should hone that fuckin’ ESP and tell me how the fuck you saw it in the first place.”

“Maybe all the splooge I’ve put up your ass, maybe some of it just lives in your bloodstream now like little tadpole scouts always keeping an eye on you.”

“Fuck you,” but it makes him laugh. And it’s the most beautiful thing Ian has ever heard.

“You first,” leaning into his neck. Taking a long inhale of his scent, the scent he could bathe himself in and it still wouldn’t be enough. 

————

He spends the night with his nose in that neck. With a thrashing and mumbling Mickey in his arms. Deciding by the time the sun is starting to tickle the ceiling in shades of a Winter morning, he’ll set up a meeting for Chester and Sandy as soon as possible.

  



	21. Tough Piece Of Southside Trash

  


Tough Piece Of Southside Trash

“What’s up with you lately?” Fiona nudges her brother with her elbow. Hoping it won’t come off sounding accusatory. He’s been doing well. Keeping to a schedule, taking his meds, working his ass off at two jobs and volunteering. But he certainly didn’t seem happy until a few weeks ago, “you seem…” when his pretty eyes land on hers she stops. It’s like walking on ice with him, cracking under her toes, under her body weight. He’s not Monica, she doesn’t think that about him, but he got the short stick, the big loser of the gene pool. Yes, when she looked at him through the plexiglass and he was fluttering with mania and he sounded so much like her mother, it scared the hell out of her. It made her feel helpless and fucking horrible. She doesn’t pity him, he’s strong enough to handle this, but she feels guilty as hell that it wasn’t her. That it had to be him. And it had to show up when he was locked up. And he didn’t have the access to a doctor who gave a shit. And he didn’t have the support he deserved. 

“Just say it Fiona,” that resignation in his tone, like she’ll always be looking for Monica in his eyes, and he’ll always know it.

“Happy. Ian, you seem happy.”

“I’m not manic,” his tone is flat, his face is blank. 

Frustration bubbles and she wants to shout at him, shake him. Instead, “I know,” and she does. It’s clear on his face, it’s clear as day that this is true happiness, not a symptom of a mood disorder, “I said happy. You seem happy lately.”

Studying her face for a long moment, deciding if it’s okay to share the reason, if it’s okay to believe what she said, if it’s okay to accept some fucking caring without concern, without judgment. Finally, he nods, that adorable little smile he’s worn since boyhood, the one that's been missing for years, rising on his face. Sometimes he is still that freckle-faced little shithead in her mind. The one that was so frustratingly positive even when they didn’t know where their parents were, or where they’d get their next meal, or if they’d have a roof over their heads. 

“I am,” he admits with the tiniest hint of pink creeping into his cheeks, “I, um, I’ve been seeing someone.”

If it’s making him smile and blush then it must be an improvement from the last douchebag, “oh yeah?”

“Yeah, he’s,” his voice trails off, looking for words. 

Fiona feels herself smile at his admission. A boyfriend he’s been keeping hidden, not out of shame, but out of having something so special that he doesn’t want to share it with the family yet. He’s catching on, knowing they’ll probably chase him away if Ian brings him around too soon. 

“He’s um,” his eyes rise to meet hers with a twinkle in them she hasn’t seen since he was fifteen, “he’s it,” he shrugs, and it’s just a shrug. It’s not his uncomfortable-to-be-in-this-body kind of shrug, “he’s it for me.”

“How long have you been keeping this little secret?” she can’t help it when a smile rises on her face, and a feeling of hope strangles out the worry in her gut.

“I don’t know. About three months since I saw him, um, met him.”

“Well,” she sighs, reaching out to squeeze his knee, “I know you want to keep him hidden from us, but if I promise everyone will be on their best behavior, will you please bring him along for Sunday dinner next week?”

The eye contact falters, “I, well, he spends Sundays with his sister and her daughter. But, I could, I don’t know, maybe we could stop by the diner or something. Just you, if you want to meet him. I don’t, it’s maybe too soon? For everyone to…”

“Fiona!” Debbie’s holler as the back door opens, “you’ll never guess who I just saw getting on the L - Mickey Milko…”

“Debbie,” hissing at her, not having realized Ian is sitting right here. 

“It’s okay,” he insists, “I knew he was back.”

“Mandy?”

“Yeah.”

She’s not very keen on him hanging out with her either. That whole family is one huge bed of weeds. Mandy might be the least shitty of them all, but how the hell the two of them can be friends still is beyond Fiona. 

“Have you seen him?” Debbie wonders towards Ian, now that she can see him clearly sitting on the couch. When he opens his mouth she interrupts him, “one eye has a huge scar across it, it looks like he’s blind in it or something. He had a dog that had one of those service bandanas on. And he’s walks funny.”

“He doesn’t walk funny,” stubborn set to his jaw, “he’s mostly blind in one eye and Sandy is a service dog.”

“Please tell me you know all that from Mandy.”

“What difference would it make?” 

“You don’t need to be around him Ian. He already fucked up your life enough. You need to stay as far away from him as possible. I know you think it was love, that’s how all first relationships are, but he’s…”

“He’s fucking incredible Fiona,” he’s staying seated but his anger is starting to boil, “I don’t think that it was love. I know that it is love. It always will be. Nothing will ever change that.”

A deep breath, convincing herself not to yell at him. Siting next to him on the couch, hand over top of his that are clasped between his knees, “Ian you have been doing so well, I am so proud of you for how you’ve gotten your life together. Do you honestly think that adding Mickey to the equation is going to…”

“Yes,” his eyes are flared with that stubborn flame that has never gone out. The stubbornness that’s gotten him this far, “adding Mickey to the equation is exactly what I need. When I can’t feel anything but the med-induced glaze, I can still feel him. I always could. And you can say whatever you want about the psychosis, but it’s bullshit. It was him, it was always him that I could still find even when I couldn’t find myself.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to swallow the frustration clogging her throat, “He is the reason you ended up doing time. He is the reason you ended up…”

“Bipolar? Monica is the reason I ended up fucking bipolar. Mickey is the reason I was at the house that morning. No, not even. Your feud with Frank is the reason I was there instead of here. If I hadn’t been in the group home, Mickey never would have offered. So if you really want to point some fucking fingers, then point them in the right direction. And the reason I pulled the trigger? Because Terry was a fucking psychopath and he was hurting the two people I love the most in this world. And I couldn’t fucking handle it anymore. It was my decision Fiona. And I don’t regret it. Not even a little bit.”

Tears have sprung to her eyes that she didn’t feel rising. Her hand reaching to wipe at them. She has no idea what to say, what to think. She’s not even certain of what went on that morning. The story has always been that Terry caught them together, beat the hell out of Mickey, pistol whipped him, and Ian knocked him off of Mickey with a bat. While Mickey was unconscious they struggled and Ian ended up shooting him out of self defense. But there was no other witness. According the medical examiner, the gunshot wound wasn’t necessary for self defense after the bat to the head. And according to the shitty state provided lawyer, he’d be better off taking a deal than going to trial. 

“I should have done better,” she whispers, “I should have fought harder to get you a good lawyer, I should have been there for every single conversation with the detective and the lawyer. I failed you before I even got a chance to be your guardian,” her chin quivers, hiding her face in her hands.

She can hear his sigh over the rushing in her ears. It feels like a lifetime before he reaches out to touch her. Pulling her into an embrace she hasn’t felt in years. When he was a kid he was always searching for hugs. And she was always more than happy to give them. But now, it’s like he can’t stand being in his own skin and a touch from another person just sets his flesh on fire, “you didn’t fail. You couldn’t control that. Any of it. And I don’t need you to control any of it now. I just need you to trust me and to stop worrying so much.”

“I can’t help the worrying,” her voice takes on that tone of someone near hysterics.

“I’m sure I could talk to Carl, he could up his game. Give you plenty to stay busy with.”

“Don’t you dare,” she sobs, but a tiny wave of relief rises. He’s right. She needs to trust him, she needs to let him make his own decisions and live his own life. It’s what he’s been doing, and he’s been doing a great job of it. Love makes sane people do insane things, so maybe it makes insane people do sane things. Damnit, there was never a chance of talking him out of something he had his heart set on anyway. The last time he tried to go after his heart’s desire, he ended up overdosing after the full realization that he couldn’t serve his country took hold. But there was no talking him out of that either. 

Without knowing it was Mickey, she noticed he was happy. She noticed an easier atmosphere around him. She noticed that he was in love. So why does it matter who it’s with? And if Mickey spent eight years in the Marines, then he’s not the same piece of trash he was. There’s no way he’s doing the illegal shit his father had him doing in his teen years. 

“Blind?” wiping at her cheeks desperately. The most shocking thing about him was never his shitty attitude, it was his eyes.

“One eye. Mostly blind, will be completely blind in the near future most likely. It just looks foggy because the tissue is atrophied. But it’s still the same to look at him. Just,” he sighs, rubbing his hands up her back, “more to look at.”

Of course Ian would see it that way, “what happened?”

“IED.”

“That sucks,” swiping the last round of tears off her face, wrapping her arms around her brother.

“Yeah, but he’s the toughest piece of Southside trash I’ve ever known.”

She leans just far enough out of the embrace to look at his eyes, “it takes one to know one sweet face.”

  



	22. Boxed Memories

  


Boxed Memories

“What is all that?” stopping dead in his tracks when he pushes the apartment door open to a pile of boxes jammed up against the far wall of the living room.

“Mostly fuckin’ junk. Guess Lydia didn’t feel like storin’ my shit in her storage unit that her parents pay for anymore, so she sent it all to Mandy. I’ll sort through it tomorrow,” he shrugs, hands on his hips as he appraises the boxes, “probably could just haul it all to Good Will. Ain’t like I need any of it.”

Ian steps out of his boots and takes the strides over to run his hands down Mickey’s back. leaning in for a kiss when he turns his head. That last push of calm tamping down the frustration and anger that rose before dinner, “don’t just get rid of it. That’s eight years of memories and accomplishments. It can stay there as long as you want. Won’t bother me one bit.”

“Liar.”

“Okay yeah. It’ll bother the hell out of me if it stays in boxes in the living room,” a smile rises as Mickey’s eyes linger on his lips, “just please don’t dump it at Good Will. If the memories are too close to the surface to deal with, then we put the boxes in the closet, or store them in the attic at Fiona’s. But,” sliding his hands around his hips to draw him closer to Ian’s body, “I never got to see you in uniform…”

“I ain’t ever putting that shit on again. Ever.”

“Even the tan shirt with the green pants and the little hat thingy?”

“Fuck you,” his face darts into Ian’s neck as he turns in his arms to face him, “that one ain’t so bad. But it’s not like I can just put that shit on whenever the fuck I want. Got rules and regulations for everything Corps related. Includin’ appropriate settings for uniforms. And I ain’t enlisted anymore so…”

“So no one’s going to bust your rank for wearing them around the apartment…”

“Ain’t happenin’. Besides I never updated the rank insignia or the ribbon stacks in the last probably three or four years I was in. So…”

“So your chest would be covered in medals and the uniform would be too heavy if you updated it.”

“Yeah something like that firecrotch,” he’s wearing that cocky Mickey smirk when he tilts his head back to look up at Ian. But his tone is a little heavy, and he’s probably thinking about the true weight of earning those medals now. Sandy is getting up from her bed and making her way over. Sensing the shift in mood. 

Ian tucks his knuckle under Mickey’s chin, tilting his head to the perfect angle for kissing, but he doesn’t do it just yet, “I think that some day you’ll be able to be proud of what you’ve earned. And I think when that day comes, you should have your uniforms tucked into garment bags, all up to date with rank and medals. And maybe someday when you’re ready we can put your dress coat on display somewhere with all that history on it so that people can walk into our home and see that there’s a total badass who lives there. Someone who deserves respect, earned respect, and accomplished things that most of us can’t fathom and can’t achieve ourselves but we should always be so fucking grateful for the few who can and did.”

“Ian if you…”

“No. I wouldn’t have. Even if I hadn’t ended up in the can, I’d still be bipolar. And if I wasn’t bipolar, then maybe I could have enlisted. West Point was just a stupid dream of leaving the Southside. I never would have had the grades for it. If I enlisted, I’d probably never have made it through basic with Fiona’s nurturing of codependence,” he smiles, running his finger over the very edge of Mickey’s scar, “I’m the only Gallagher who has left the nest, and I didn’t go far. And I still see them at least once a week. I never could have lasted months in training, and months overseas. But,” sliding his hand across Mickey’s cheek, slipping through his hair to land on the back of his neck, “I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to be proud of my boyfriend for being so damn strong.”

“Boyfriend, huh?”

A heated blush rises in his cheeks, “only if you…”

“Fuck Gallagher, we gonna flip a coin over who has to change their last name?” 

“No. I’d never expect you to take Frank’s last name.”

“Fuck Terry’s last name.”

“It’s not Terry’s. That last name belongs to Staff Sergeant Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich. And I’d be proud as hell to wear it too.”

“Goddamn, you’re queer.”

“Yeah, so are you,” finally leaning into those begging-to-be-kissed lips. Being met with every single ounce of passion that those lips always supply. Those lips, there is nothing that will ever compare to the feel of them, the way Mickey seems to start with his lips and somehow take over every single part of his body and mind from there, with his lips and his tongue. Like he slides right down Ian’s throat and makes everything inside of him his own. 

All Ian has ever wanted to do is live under Mickey’s skin. It always seemed safer there, under his armor. Yet somehow, it was always Mickey crawling under and over Ian’s every single sense, every nerve, ever fiber, every instance of his being. 

He leans out of the kiss way too soon, eyebrow up as he scans Ian’s face, “didn’t know uniforms did it for ya Gallagher.”

“Huh?”

His hand making contact with the front of Ian’s jeans, grasping a rock hard dick through the material, “would have had them sent here earlier if I knew that.”

“Holy shit,” so involved in the overwhelming presence of Mickey, he hadn’t even realized that useless piece of flesh was back to life, “holy shit.”

Not for lack of trying in the last few weeks. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Mickey was right, he was absolutely right about it being a mental block. The few times they’ve worked at it, Ian has been the one to throw in the towel. Thinking there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Mickey just keep sucking when he’s certain that his neck is sore and his mouth is tired and he’s running out of tricks. And Mickey being the asshole that he is, tossed the viagra, knowing eventually Ian would just take it, just to get what he wanted physically in the end. 

Even forcing his eyes to remain open, to keep the top of Mickey’s head in his line of vision. Even when Mickey’s hand is clasped in his and he can look around the apartment and know that he’s not in the Milkovich house of horrors, and he’s not behind bars. Even when he’s here, and it’s Mickey, and no one is going to come barging through the door to kick their asses or try to fuck them straight, it’s still been right there. Right there on the tip of his tongue, tasting like bile and years of pure hell rolling around in his mouth. 

Mickey’s persistence has been equally frustrating and endearing. Taking his sweet time to kiss Ian until his lips are sore and the anxiety is leaving his chest, and his worry that Mickey will just get up and leave him is stifled down to a tiny ball of nothingness under the feel of his hands. All this coming from a guy who was completely emotionally shut down in their early years to anything even resembling intimacy or caring with sex. 

“No need to scare it,” he smiles, getting to work at Ian’s belt, “just get it where it belongs.”

————

“Jesus fucking Christ,” his thighs clamped tight around Ian’s hips, fingers pressing dents into the back of his neck and his butt-cheek.

“Nope. Not Jesus, just me.”

“Fuck you,” lips pursed in annoyance, “gimme a second,” his head falling back against the pillows. Deep breath.

“You okay?” 

“Fuckin’ ‘course I am. It’s been a minute since I’ve had nine inches up my ass.”

“Nah, it’s only like eight.”

“Whatever you say, tough guy,” rolling his eyes.

Ian’s hands slide under his body, finding his shoulder blades to press his chest close, “you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

“Fu…”

Cutting him off by kissing him. Some day he’ll accept a compliment. Until then Ian will cut off his denial with kisses. That’s not a problem. 

Fuck, tingles are rolling up his spine and he hasn’t begun moving yet. Waiting for Mickey’s tap on his butt giving the go ahead, but, “fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I need you to.”

“What’s that mean? You okay?”

“Yes, fuck, I’m fine. I…”

“I didn’t do enough prep, did I? Shit, Mick, I’m sorry, I should,” he starts drawing back but Mickey’s grip just tightens as panic starts budding in Ian’s chest, spotting his eyes as they dart back and forth between Mickey’s.

“Slow down firecrotch,” his hand moves from the back of Ian’s head to find his cheek, thumb like a slow windshield wiper back and forth. Back and forth, “I’m fine. Just, uh,” playful smile rising, “spent eight years lookin’ for weapons of mass destruction, turns out it was right fuckin’ here all along.”

“That’s not funny,” but it did douse some of the rising anxiety.

“Oh come on. It was pretty funny.”

“Like the last fucking thing that I want is…”

“Good fuck, man, how many times I gotta say I’m fine,” tapping at his butt again, “now you gonna fuck me like you mean it? Or we just gonna lay here talkin’ like a couple of bitches?”

“A couple of bitches with two big cocks, sure.”

“Yeah, okay. Keep fuckin’ dreamin’.”

“What the fuck do you see when you look in the mirror? Every single inch of you is so insanely perfect.”

“You keep talkin’ like that your dick is gonna shrivel up and turn into a vagina,” he’s tapping Ian’s butt, his impatience starting to take over, “fuckin’ eh,” his arms suddenly wrap around Ian’s shoulders, tugging him in close as he forces a roll over, “I’ve had enough vagina to last a fucking lifetime,” palms planted firmly on Ian’s chest. The grind starts slow and his eyes roll shut, “fuck,” chomping down hard on his bottom lip as he gets used to the feeling, “fuck.”

Leaving Ian wishing he had a damn spotlight to light up every single part of his body. Drink his features one by one by one. Take his sweet fucking time to linger on every single piece of him.

“Fuck,” releasing his lower lip from his teeth, lips pursing as his pace picks up just a little. 

Taking every ounce of control in Ian’s being not to thrust. It’ll be over in a single one if he does. Why the fuck couldn’t this selfish asshole do this before? Good god, he is the most gorgeous thing that has ever set foot on this planet. It hurts like hell to think that he has a single insecurity about himself. 

His hands finally move from off the bed beside him where they’ve come to rest and done nothing since Mickey rolled them. Finding his legs, his thighs, fingers dipping into the dent in his right thigh. The dent from a piece of metal that embedded itself right in the scar from the bullet. The piece of metal that stayed there as he dug and clung to hope in a hopeless situation. The piece of metal that stayed there for hours as he climbed over and through rubble and debris. 

Thighs, hips, sides. Every rib on the right. every notch on the left. Every tallied scar. Twenty-four. Twenty-four lives taken. Twenty-four to remember. Twenty-four to carry on his broad shoulders. Twenty-four with every single one of them etched into the skin on his side, a permanent reminder, a forever feeling of each life he’s taken. 

Chest. Smooth, pale chest. His perfect pink nipples. Shoulders, strong and loaded with so many burdens, too many for most to bear. Down his arms, every single dent and divot in his right forearm, every piece of shrapnel that’s been removed and some still in there, bit by bit making their way to the surface. 

His eyes linger on Mickey’s face, tilted back just a little, neck exposed towards Ian. His hands find Mickey’s where they’ve remained on his chest. Turning to slide underneath, fingers to palm, through fingers, grasping as Mickey’s face angles down to look at Ian through the space between them. 

Fuck, he can’t take it anymore. Not when those eyes linger on his and all he sees is the future written across those breathtakingly blue irises, every day, every week, every month, every year for the rest of their lives. He has no doubt about this. 

Heat and passion enveloping his entire being and it’s not much different than those moments in solitary. Not much different than seeing those eyes piercing him through the flames. The difference this time, when he releases Mickey’s hand and reaches for his face, it’s truly there. It’s there against his palm, under his fingers, it’s there and it’s drawing near. 

Lips meeting lips and the last ounce of control Ian had over his body is gone. Thrusting slowly into Mickey’s rolling hips, tight hold on one hand the other gripping against the back of his head. The kiss is broken with a nod, a go-ahead as his face lingers close and forget holding his hand and his head. Wrapping his arms around his back tightly to keep his entire body as close as possible. His face nestles into Ian’s neck, his breath ragged bursts against his heated skin. 

The sweetest moan Ian has ever heard whispered across his collarbone as he feels the tightening around him, throbbing through his entire being, the perfect synchronized rhythm they’ve always existed in. 

He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t want this moment to end just to wake up and realize it was all a dream. That he’s still behind bars and still hallucinating and still half out of his fucking mind. Or all the way out of his fucking mind. But the feel of Mickey, the heat and beating heart, the breath, the sweat, the tickle of his hair against his chin. It’s real. It’s the most real thing Ian has ever felt. 

“I love you,” it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. And he’s not sure he’d stop it if he could.

Mickey’s head lifts, eyes meeting and holding Ian’s, gentle smile rising on his perfect face, “yeah? Well, I guess I love you too firecrotch,” leaning into his lips as they rise to match the expression.

Muffled grunt into Ian’s mouth when he repositions himself, removing Ian from his body and stretching his legs out, tangled limbs remaining tangled when the kiss breaks and his head finds the perfect resting place on Ian’s chest. 

“You good?” tilting to kiss into his soft black hair.

“Yes. Fuck. Treat me like some bitch ‘cause I’m all fuckin’ covered in scars or what?”

“No. Treat you like some bitch ‘cause it’s been a minute since you’ve had nine inches up your ass.”

“Yeah, well it’s more like eight.”

“Whatever you say Mick.”

“Fuck,” with a sigh, “your animals are perverts Gallagher.”

Turning his head with a laugh to the sight of Chester sitting on the side table watching them, Sandy sitting in the doorway keeping her eyes on Mickey, “mine?”

“You’re the one who brought them home.”

“You’re the one they love.”

“Just ‘cause I’m home more.”

It will never get old hearing that. Home. Home, coming out of Mickey’s mouth and lingering in the bedroom around them, in the apartment around them. 

————

The sweating, thrashing, and mumbling against Ian’s chest is more than enough to keep him awake for half the night. Mickey doesn’t want Sandy on the bed, but her chin resting on the mattress beside him, watching Ian for the permission to guide him back to a calmer place. That’s enough for him. Breaking the rules, patting the bed beside Mickey. She climbs up apprehensively, laying down gently against his back. Nudging at his arm with her nose until she finds his hand. 

Without waking, he instinctively rolls to face her. A deep settling breath, hand lingering on Sandy’s side when she tucks herself against him. Keeping her eyes open, keeping her faithful watch over him. Chin coming to a rest on his bare shoulder, her eyes linger on Ian for a moment and he nods at her. She blinks a response to his unspoken approval. 

By morning Chester’s jealousy has gotten the better of her and she’s leaned against Mickey’s head like a purring hat when Ian’s alarm sounds. This intense display of affection is bound to make him wake grumpy and mumbling about being too hot. 

But a grumpy Mickey is just another irresistible Mickey, slapping the alarm off before he burrows his face into Mickey’s neck, wraps his arms around him and pulls him in close.

“Fuck off Gallagher,” grumbled into the pillow and the dog’s fur and the cat’s purr. 

“They’re allowed to cuddle you, but I’m not?”

“All three of you are about to get your fucking asses kicked, starting with whoever is the last to get off the fucking bed,” as soon as he shifts, the cat takes off. When the startled cat takes off like a flash, it perks Sandy’s attention. Giving Mickey a stinky wet morning kiss before she jumps off the bed and follows Chester.

“Fuck, guess you’re the rotten egg tough guy.”

“Mmhmm,” taking a hold of Mickey’s shoulder to throw it down on the bed, flat on his back as Ian leans over him, ducking into his neck to start a trail of kisses that doesn’t end until he’s taking Mickey’s incredible morning wood in his mouth. 

Fingers sliding through his hair, “mornin’ to you too sleepy face.”

  



	23. Stupid Parade

  


Stupid Parade

“I don’t do the whole meet the boyfriend thing firecrotch.”

“It’s not meet the boyfriend. It’s the Southside St. Patrick’s Day parade. No different than it ever used to be.”

“You think I went to that shit back in the day?”

“Well, no,” he shrugs, the stubborn set of his jaw slowly receding, that annoying pleading look in his eye.

“No.”

“No to which part?”

“All of it,” crossing his arms over his chest. The damn dog is making her way over to him, he can feel her approaching his blurry side, her shoulder brushing against his leg.

Ian’s eyes haven’t left Mick’s, haven’t noticed the dog’s response, “fine. You don’t want to meet my family…”

“Fuck you with that. I know your fuckin’ family,” his breath is getting short, fingers rising to his eyes. It’s the crowd and the noise. And everyone else is going to be drinking and rowdy and having a great fucking time. And so far, yeah, Ian can’t drink, and it’s been working just great. They rarely leave the fucking apartment other than to walk the dog, or head down to the shelter. Ian goes to work. 

Ian goes to work and Mickey cleans and cooks, and sometimes reads some of the books Ian brings home from the library. And sure, he’s done some of Ian’s stupid yoga videos. And yeah, fuckever, they kind of sort of help a little bit with some of the anxiety shit that keeps running circles in his brain when he’s alone and he can’t bear the thought of not being alone, but he doesn’t really want to be alone. And then Sandy appears out of nowhere, jutting her nose into his hand and waiting. And then Chester appears from the sunny spot on the windowsill and bats at whatever part of him she choses at that particular moment until he scratches behind her ears. So whatever, the ginger idiot knows a few things about being alone and not wanting to be alone but not wanting company either. And these stupid furry things that are always stalking him are probably the closest thing he’ll ever have to someone who silently understands every single thing that races around in his mind. 

“Or,” his big dumb hand slides across Mickey’s fingertips, the ones that are vigorously trying to dislodge his eyeball from his head, “we could,” prying their way between the fingers and the lids, “invite Fiona over for dinner here some night,” forcing his hand away from his face, other hand finding the back of his head and steering him into his chest, “just the three of us. Well,” shrugging, “I guess five of us,” lips meeting the top of Mickey’s head. 

Fuck. Guess the damn animals aren’t the only ones who silently understand all the shit that chokes off in his throat and refuses to exit in the form of words that might be able to put a label on any of the images. Any of the fluttering in his chest at the thought of being in a noisy crowd, any of the cut-off breathing at the thought of being confronted with hordes of drunk people when he’s fucking sober and how many of them will be looking at his eye? And how many of them will be drunk enough to fucking ask him about it? And how many times can he shrug it off before he loses his fucking mind? And of all the fucking places in the world, how the fuck did he end up back here in the Southside where everyone used to know him, and everyone thinks they still do, and everyone knows the fucking story, whatever fucking gossip bullshit story about Terry’s death and Ian’s sentence and Mickey’s enlistments. And fuck them. Ain’t like he’s got a big old pile of loud-mouthed overly protective siblings lingering around him to chase off the gawkers, and the judgers and the pitiers. 

Fuck them, “fuck,” against Ian’s chest, “you wanna go to the parade?”

Shrug, “not if you don’t.”

“Do you want to go to the fucking parade Ian?”

“Well, only if, I mean, no, I want to spend my day off with you. I want to…”

“How the fuck you work at a liquor store and you got the biggest drinking holiday of the year off?”

“Manager works St Patrick’s day.”

“Oh,” his left hand is tangled in Sandy’s fur, his right one is landing on Ian’s back, and his head is turning to rest his ear right over his heart, “I’m not gonna be the reason you don’t go to this stupid parade. If you wanna go, we’ll go.”

“Don’t do that just for me.”

“Fuck you. Don’t argue with me. We’re going, and that’s fuckin’ final.”

————

“Fuck, Mick,” he’s got that damn dopey grin on his face, reaching for Mickey’s hips, “I don’t want to go anymore. I want to stay here and fuck the hell out of you instead. You look so…”

“Don’t,” finger jabbing into Ian’s chest.

“Gorgeous,” he finishes anyway with that look like he’s not sure if he’ll get shoved or kissed for it.

Instead Mickey rolls his eyes, “it’s your parade, man. I ain’t gonna rain on it or some shit.”

“No?” fingers through belt loops, tugging close, “I don’t have to see the beginning of it,” lips meeting the side of Mickey’s neck, “or the middle,” nuzzling his nose against his ear, “or the end.”

The guy has been like a fucking teenager again now that his dick works. And Mickey doesn’t mind it one damn bit.

————

“Where the hell were you? You missed the entire thing!” Fiona tosses her arms around Ian’s neck as soon as she can reach him. She looks pretty damn drunk, fuck, that could go either way. 

“Lost track of time,” he shrugs, giving her a tight squeeze before letting go. 

She leans out of his body, her eyes flitting across Mickey’s face, finding his good eye as a focal point, “been awhile,” stating the obvious, “but I think we can skip the awkward introductions,” she smiles, a little watering in her eyes, “can I hug you?”

Fuck, he wants to say no, he wants to tuck himself into Ian’s side, or climb under Sandy’s fur, or just fucking take the fuck off as fast and as far away as possible, “fuck if I care,” before it’s fully out his mouth her skinny arms are around his shoulders. She smells like Southside. Cigarettes, beer, cheap perfume. It ain’t that bad. 

Debbie wants to know if it’s okay to pet a service dog. Carl wants to know about Boot Camp, and every single thing about the Marine Corps sniper rifle. And that shit is okay. That shit is easy. And Liam is busy making eyes at some hood girl. And Lip is, thank fuckin’ Christ, out with his girlfriend on the richer side of town. 

When Kev offers him a beer, it’s easy to say, “no thanks man, I don’t drink anymore.”

And the seven foot tall idiotic teddy bear slaps his shoulder and grins, “I guess I’ll have to find a different offering to thank you for your service.”

Mickey feels a hot flush of not knowing what to say, he feels Sandy’s wet nose jabbing into his palm, slides his hand over her head and responds, “well I wouldn’t turn down a fuckin’ joint.”

“Good call,” his hand clamps down tighter on Mick’s shoulder and apparently he’s going to go with him to get the shit.

He catches Ian’s eye, for what he’s not sure, but he gets the nod of approval or understanding or maybe just knowing he’ll be gone for a minute, fuckever it is, at least it’s there. 

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me with this shit,” when he sees the ice cream truck, “you still pullin’ this?”

“Fuck yes,” he grins that obnoxiously huge grin, “Lip might be an arrogant prick now that he’s making his way up in the world…”

“Now? He’s always been an arrogant prick,” surprised Kev would even know that big of a word.

“But, he’s got a serious knack for growing the shit. He’s convinced it’ll be legalized soon enough and he’ll corner the Southside market or something,” he shrugs, pulling the door open and stepping aside to motion Mickey in.

He motions towards Sandy in response.

“She’s fine,” putting his hand out for her to sniff, “you’re a pretty girl,” as he crouches in front of her, “you’re such a pretty girl.”

“Don’t talk to my dog like that.”

“Why? It’s true, isn’t it?” leaning into her face until his nose touches hers, “you’re so pretty.”

“Fuck,” letting out a breathy whistle for her to get her away from the affectionate torture, “c’mon.”

Half a joint and an overview of ten years worth of Southside gossip later, he scans over Mickey’s bad eye for the first time, lingering, wondering, “Marines, huh?”

He nods, and maybe it’s the weed, “not much of a choice. That or prison,” shrugging, “didn’t feel like being behind bars, but sometimes…”

“Three meals a day, a mattress, a gym, access to your family.”

“Somethin’ like that. And fuck, maybe if I chose bars I coulda ended up in the same joint as Ian,” fuckin’ weed. Sandy’s fuckin’ chin resting on his thigh. His fingers working the softest fur on the planet, the longer curly stuff right beside her ear.

“Think you would have wanted to protect him right after he, you know? Um…”

“Killed my dad?”

“Yeah. That.”

He shrugs, “maybe not.”

Handing the joint back over with a sigh before he leans back, “time apart, not so bad sometimes.”

“How the fuck you know that? You and V have been up each other’s asses for how long now? Fuckin’ work together on top of livin’ together.”

“Man, you have been gone a long time. I took off on her for about six months a few years back. Shit got stressful when we thought we wanted kids and couldn’t have them, just changed things between us. It was like all she could focus on and I couldn’t be man enough to support her in the ways I should have, just kept thinking if it wasn’t meant to be then so be it. Anyway, I found my birth family. Bunch of hillbilly Appalachian inbreds,” he smiles. And Mickey’s not surprised that’d be Kev’s heritage.

“I was convinced I was bred to be a mountain man and I was meant to live off the land,” he laughs now. 

“Did it work?” not imagining that it could have. Kev ain’t exactly a hunter gatherer type.

“No,” the laugh is starting to show the effect of the weed too.

And it makes Mickey laugh. Once he starts, he realizes he hasn’t had a carefree laugh in a long damn time, and it feels fuckin’ good. 

“I don’t know how you did it man, I couldn’t even stand gutting a rabbit.”

“It ain’t like we gut our kills over there.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, feeling Sandy’s fur underneath his fingertips, “one of the guys in my unit was a hillbilly motherfucker. Killed a rattle snake, skinned it, cooked it on a George Foreman grill and ate it.”

“You got Foreman grills over there?”

“No fuckface. It wasn’t eight years straight over there, fuck. Had some time stateside between deployments.”

“How many you do?”

“Four.”

“I, uh, heard you were a sniper?”

“Yah,” removing his hand from the dog to spark the joint again. 

“That’s pretty badass shit there. Not like the video games though, is it?”

“Nothing is.”

“I don’t know, I’ve been stoned enough to see Bowser driving down the road in front of me with that damn shell.”

“Fuck, glad I ain’t got a driver’s license anymore.”

“You totally blind in that eye?”

“Will be soon enough.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Fuckin’ IED.”

“Ouch. Gotta say, it makes you look pretty badass, a little Waterworld Dennis Hopper.”

“Fuck you,” handing the joint back over, “that movie sucked.”

“Finish it. V will have my balls if I pass out this early in the day.”

Fuck. Passing out this early in the day, that sounds fucking great. But for some strange damn reason, so does talking. Out here, with Kev who has probably never given half a shit about all the shit he hears at The Alibi, but he listens anyway. With Kev and this warm furry dog that Mickey’s become so reliant on in such a short time it’s incredible. 

But, he sighs, pinching the lit end with his fingers and sliding it into his shirt pocket. This ain’t the time to get stoned out of his mind. Then one thing will lead to another, a beer will sound good, a shot of Jack will sound good, and tomorrow he’ll wake up in the street with nothing. 

Right now, at this stage of high, he can deal with the crowd inside the Gallagher house. He can deal with the noise. He can keep his shit together. And when the night is finally fucking over, he can go back home. Home with a guy he can’t seem to stop loving. No matter what he does, no matter how much distance, how much time, how many life-altering events happen, Ian is always the constant thing that keeps pulling him back to a life he wants to live. 

His fingers meet his lids for a deep grind, heavy sigh, “Southside,” he hears himself snort.

“Yeah. Can’t beat ‘em, might as well join ‘em,” his giant body stretches out before he stands, extending his hand, “seriously though man, thank you for your service.”

“Fuck you,” but he shakes it anyway. Fuckin’ weed.

  



	24. What If?

  


What if?

“Just ‘cause you got me goin’ to this shit don’t mean I’ll go to fuckin’ Pride. Like ever,” he half stumbles through the bedroom door.

“Mick,” sighing, as his hands reach to steady him, his mind stopping them before they make contact, “we didn’t even make it to the parade.”

He waves him off with his hand. Clumsy as he steps out of his pants on his way to the bed, “fuck, that shit was potent,” falling face first down into the middle of the mattress.

“Oh that’s how it’s gonna be?” sliding one knee between Mickey’s and lowering himself over his back.

“How? With me passed the fuck out?”

“Really?” hands caressing his thighs, “that potent?”

“Hmm?”

“The weed?”

Silence for long enough that Ian wonders if he’s fallen asleep that quickly. Then a deep breath, “sorry.”

“For what?” leaning back, forcing Mickey to roll beneath him, face to face, before settling back down against him.

Fuck, he looks stoned. And tired. Bastard probably didn’t sleep at all last night, worrying about the parade and spending time in a crowd. Damn it. 

“Probably shouldn’t’ve smoked…”

“Shh. You’re allowed to do things that I can’t do, you don’t have to give up all of the substances, just most of them,” he smiles, “you want to smoke a joint every once in awhile, won’t bother me one bit,” slipping fingers through his hair, “if you stay out of the drinks, stay away from the hard stuff,” shrugging, “then a little weed won’t hurt.”

His eyes are getting heavy, he keeps fighting it but every blink lasts just a little longer. Closed for so long this time he’s got to be out for the count. That scar. He just wants to reach out and trace it. It’s beautiful in it’s pain. 

A half whispered admission, “probably would have been treatable if it happened closer to a real base with real doctors. Or if…” trailing off for so long that Ian is certain he’s not going to finish the thought. Without opening his eyes, his hand finds Ian’s face, tracing along his jawline with his fingers, over his cheek, ear, coming to rest with fingers in his hair, “maybe if I stopped when support showed up. I just kept thinkin’, what if? What if one or two of ‘em were still alive? And what if, what if I stopped too soon? What if I fuckin’,” his voice shakes. Ian can see his eyes moving beneath his lids, “what if I gave up too fuckin’ soon? Fuck. But there was nothing. Not a damn chance. And fuck if I can convince myself of that,” a deep breath that shakes anyway. 

He has no idea what to say. What is there to say? You did your best Mick. You were half blind and bleeding, head ringing, most likely concussed, and you didn’t fucking give up until it was over. You didn’t stop digging for life, for your brothers, for your best friend even when it meant your own health, even when it meant your own eye, and fuck, I know you, you’d have given your damn life if they hadn’t stopped you. And I know they stopped you. I know without you saying a single word, and without knowing any specifics about the incident, I know that someone made you stop before you did.

There is nothing to say. So he slides his fingers through his hair, leans his forehead against his, breathes his air, lets his heart beat a steady rhythm right there against Mickey’s. Nothing between them but ribcage and flesh, beating the gentle calm rhythm that Mickey can feel, he can hear, and he can take it. A slow, even breath against his perfect lips, a silent urge to keep his beat, to keep him close, to keep his mind right here, right here where he’s safe and he did every single fucking thing that was humanly possible that day. He did everything in his power to control an uncontrollable situation. And not a single part of it is his fault.

None of it, “I love you,” and if I was the praying type, I’d get down on my knees every single day and thank the fucking lord for sending you home to me.

Whatever he mumbles back at him through the slur of sleep sounds close enough to, “I love you too,” before Ian sighs a laugh against his lips and nudges him over to his side of the bed. Met with as much resistance as possible and plenty of muffled curse words but when he settles in on his side, his first move is to tug Ian’s arm around his chest, grip tight to his forearm, his unspoken words winding through the air of the bedroom, his ‘please don’t give up on me because as long as I am fucking breathing I will never give up on you’, as his fingers entwine with Ian’s and the back of his hand is pressed into his lips.

  



	25. Dog Tags

  


Dog Tags

“I need to get a fuckin’ job,” scrambling the eggs on the stove-top.

“But you look so good as my personal chef, housekeeper, animal caretaker,” walking until he’s against Mickey’s back, face in his neck, “sex toy.”

He grunts out a laugh, “as fulfilling as all of that is…”

Taking a playful nip of his neck, much to Mickey’s dismay, throwing a hip Ian’s way to dislodge him while he tosses some chopped sweet peppers into the eggs, “want your fuckin’ eggs, you might want to back the fuck off tough guy.”

“Fine, but only because overcooked eggs are fucking gross. Not because you scare me.”

Watching Mickey eat, it’s one of Ian’s favorite things. His mouth, he could be doing anything with his mouth and it would hold Ian’s attention, he could be doing nothing with his mouth and he would still stare at his lips for hours. 

“Well, what ya got tough guy? Makin’ a list in that head of yours? All my fuckin’ traits that would make a great fuckin’ employee?”

Feeling himself grin, “I didn’t get past your lips yet.”

Eyes rolling, “helpful.”

“I know. Well, my first stop would be places that have preferential hiring for former military.”

“How the fuck am I s’posed to find that shit?”

“Google,” he shrugs, “or your VA rep if he can get off his ass and give you a few pamphlets or websites…”

“Good luck with that,” he snorts.

“Google it is. Come down to the library today. I’ll try to track down some starting points and…”

“No,” waving him off with his hand, “I got fuckall to do today. I’ll come down and gather my own damn information firecrotch. If I got any questions on how to use fuckin’ Google, I’ll find you.”

If Mickey was too proud to accept help when they were kids, it’s only gotten a hundred times worse now. Go through boot camp that breaks him down to absolutely nothing and then builds him up to rely on his own body and mind, on his weapon and his training, on other guys in his squad. And no one else. 

Wondering if Mickey has any contact anymore with anyone from his former unit. Might be worth trying to track down one or two of his buddies who could be experiencing similar adjustments to civilian life. It’s hard. It has to be hard. Go from a place where his purpose is clear and his job is clear and there’s no questioning it, and no reason to believe he won’t do it for the rest of his working life. 

Taken away in an instant. 

————

Apprehensive when he shoves the door open. Feeling already the heaviness in the air. Mickey stopped by the library, only to leave in a hurry, mumbling something about having found enough information. But he looked spooked and uneasy, even with Sandy against his leg. 

Ian wanted to run out after him, but he can’t afford to lose a job. It was hard enough to get the two he has now. 

He’s sitting on the floor, an unopened bottle of Jack next to him, the dog laying on his other side, the cat watching from the back of the couch. He has the boxes opened, some items spread across the floor. Littering his lap. Something clenched in his right hand, the necklace chain hanging out from between his fingers. Must be dog tags. 

Ian closes the door quietly. Stooping to remove his boots, the noise startling Mickey into admitting, “fuck, I didn’t put dinner in the oven.”

“That’s fine Mick. It’s still early,” but it’s not. Not really. He’s been spoiled lately, getting home and having dinner ready to go. Spoiled, that doesn’t even begin to explain what Mickey has given him in the months he’s been here. 

Instead of getting dinner ready, he takes the steps over to the living room. Sitting close, but not close enough to touch. Not saying a word. 

Chester is the first one to move, leaping down to rub her head against Ian’s hand before she stretches out in Mickey’s lap, making herself comfortable on a handful of papers. On top is the DD214. Discharge papers. 

Ian turns his face, just enough to lay a kiss on Mickey’s shoulder. The words start coming out haltingly, slowly, barely above a whisper and shaking, “it’s been two years. Today. I didn’t realize what day it was,” his face twists and the words break off in his throat, “the date. I didn’t realize the date. And last year,” fingers rising to his eyes, “I missed it too. Fuck if I know where I was. Drunk in an alley somewhere. I promised,” right hand fisting up around the dog tags, “I promised her I’d visit. I wouldn’t be a stranger. He was her only kid, her only family. She has no one else. And I couldn’t even,” a lone tear escapes him, wiping at it like it never existed. Clearing his throat, “I haven’t even picked up the fucking phone. I told her at the ceremony that I’d check in, as often as I could. And I haven’t spoken to her since. Fuck, I’m a piece of shit. The last living person who laid eyes on her son, and I…”

Left thumb and forefinger grinding into his eyes, right hand lingering over Ian’s, dropping the dog tags with a tremble, the outline of them embedded in his palm. They’re warm.

MacKay, A. L.  
And the shield of strength. Prayer of Salvation on one side. Joshua 1:9 on the other. ‘I will be strong and courageous. I will not be terrified, or discouraged; for the Lord my God is with me wherever I go.’

“That’s the fuckin’ set for inspection. Only time we ever wore ‘em on our chests. Stupid things feel like they weigh a million fucking pounds when they’re hanging around your neck like a fuckin’ noose,” his right hand has started rubbing against his sternum, “tuck ‘em in our boot laces overseas. Ain’t in the way. And combat boots, man, you’d be surprised how many fuckin’ boots survive an IED when the rest of the body is…” thumb tapping now against his chest, tapping out the rhythm that his heart is beating. Beating in his ears, in the back of his throat, the throbbing burdened organ filled to the brink with love and loss.

He takes a deep breath that stops short in his throat anyway and his head drops, landing on Ian’s shoulder with heavy exhaustion, “name, blood type, SSN, branch of service, gender, religion. Name for your mom, blood type for doc, SSN for the government and religion for your last fuckin’ rights. Like anybody’s still alive anymore by the time a chaplain comes along. Maybe back in the fuckin’ day when wars were fought on battlefields and the dying got to fuckin’ die instead of bein’ sent home legless or armless or both, face burned off, or fuckin’ paralyzed from a damn bullet to the spine. Fuck, maybe Mac was one of the lucky ones, maybe all ten of ‘em that day were. Didn’t feel a fucking thing. There one second, hundreds of pieces in the sand the next. He was fuckin’ smilin’, he was always fucking smiling,” his right hand comes up, clenched in a tight fist, pressing against his trembling lips, “his mom used to come out to base when we were stateside, she’d stay in a dumpy rental in town, she’d stay for a month after every single post-deployment leave. Cookin’ real meals and insistin’ Mac and I eat with her every night, make sure we get a real meal in our bellies to fuel for trainin’. Mac had her fuckin’ smile and I couldn’t…”

He gasps and it takes every single part of control Ian has in his body not to grasp him. Every ounce to just sit here, still, and waiting. To not speak. To not offer verbal comfort that would be bullshit anyway. 

“I can’t handle the thought of seein’ that smile.”

Both fists are clenched, pressed against his face with white knuckles while he forces a breathing pattern. Fuck, Ian wants to tell him to cry. Let it out. It’s okay to let that shit out. But it’s not his turn to speak. 

“Fuck,” the grind into his eyes until he’s content with the amount of fuzz that he’s created. His head lifts, turning to face Ian, intensity even through that fog as he grips his hand, tugging his sleeve back to expose the scar he’s been keeping covered as much as possible since the day he cut them. Mickey’s rough fingers run the length of the right one first. Then the left. The deeper of the two. His left hand was soaked in blood, making the shiv slippery, hard to grasp as he started slicing into the right. 

Mickey’s hands both folding into Ian’s, the dog tags still in his right palm, lifting his wrists to his lips. Kissing the scars without losing the eye contact, keeping them there against his lips, whispering with a shaking voice, “don’t you ever, EVER, do something like this again. You are so fucking incredible. You deserve to live a long fucking happy as fuck life Ian. And you have so many people who love the fuck out of you. Hear me?”

“Yeah,” immediately. 

“Okay. Fuck,” wiping at his cheeks even though he’d never admit there was a trail of shimmering tears sliding down them. Releasing his grip only to hand the bottle of Jack over quickly, “get rid of this. I’ll make you a sandwich so you can take your pills on schedule.”

Reaching out for a tight hold on his wrist before he can get to his feet after he shoes Chester off his lap. Giving a dirty yank to bring him close. Face to face, “I love you,” left hand sliding across his cheek, landing on the back of his head. Right hand returning the dog tags to him, “and I’m really fucking proud of you. And really fucking grateful for you.”

He begins to snort out a denial, but Ian leans in quickly. Pressing lips to lips, and holding on. He’ll be holding on for the rest of his damn life. No doubt about that.

  



	26. You're Home

  


You’re Home

Watching the orange and red hues as they disappear and reappear between his fingers. Soft. Reassuringly here, and Ian’s. Nothing he’s ever seen in his life can hold the colors of this man’s hair. Nothing he’s ever felt in his life can draw the tangle of emotions out of him the way this man’s hair under his fingers does. 

He wants a cigarette. Or a beer. But he’s too lazy to go out to the fire escape for a smoke. And he knows he can’t drink it away. So he might as well fucking deal with it head on. 

Ian’s cheek is warm against his chest. There’s a layer of sweat stuck to his skin. The dope tries to hide his fascination with Mickey’s tally marks. But his fingers are always there, lingering there. Sure, it makes sense, that’s the natural place his hand would rest. But the way the pads of his fingers brush along each mark like he’s got them memorized from the very first time he touched them, but he still needs to remind himself anyway. He’d do the same shit with the shrapnel if Mickey let him. 

“I wrote to you,” he sighs, more towards the window than the idiot sprawled across his body. He got his way, all his tender, slow, full of eye contact bullshit that Mickey pretends to hate but he secretly fucking loves and he’ll sure in the fuck never admit out loud that he loves, “every time. Every deployment. Like a fuckin’ forgiveness letter or some shit. An apology for even puttin’ you in that situation.”

He feels Ian’s mouth open, and stay open for a moment before closing, biting back the argument. Deciding it’s worth it to just see what the hell Mickey has to say before he gives his rebuttal. 

“More than that. Shit that’s easier to write than to say. When we’re talkin’ and you’re lookin’ at me it’s like the words don’t fuckin’ matter anyway. ‘Cause you already know what I’m about to say, so there’s no point in sayin’ it. But I do Ian. I do forgive you for killin’ my dad. I understand why you did. I understand every single one of the million reasons you had for pulling that trigger. And I am sorry. I will always be sorry that you ended up in that situation. Stupid fucking situation that neither of us could control. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. But I’m still fuckin’ sorry it happened. He was my piece of shit dad, and I’m allowed to apologize for his actions that hurt you.”

“Mick, I…”

“Not tonight firecrotch. Ain’t your turn yet,” tapping his cheek gently when he re-situates himself, gaining a line of sight on Mickey’s face, “it was more than that. I wrote like a fuckin’ stack of letters. Every chance I got to write, I’d write Mandy, Birdie, Lydia, and you. Every single fucking time. Like I was gonna drop it in the mail. I didn’t. Everybody writes their last letters home at some point during a deployment. Then we burn ‘em in Kuwait when the deployment’s over. And every time I dropped a fucking stack on the flames, Mac would just clap my shoulder and tell me maybe I should wise up and say some of that shit out loud to the people I love, then I wouldn’t have to write a fuckin’ novel for a last letter.”

His hand leaves Ian’s hair, rising to run his thumb along his nose with a sigh, “I don’t know if I can. I mean, some of that shit, it just, fuck. There ain’t always words that can be spoken.”

His big dopey eyes are lingering on Mickey’s face and nothing has changed. He’s not looking at him like he’s nuts, or he’s seen too much and Ian wants to cut and run before he gets a chance to find words for any of it anyway. He’s just watching. Until he moves. Dragging Mickey down by the hips to lay flat on his back, leaning over him, “when I told you I saw the explosion. You didn’t even blink, didn’t look at me like I belonged in the looney bin. But I understand. And you can write me letters if you’d rather. Either way, I’ll read or I’ll listen. It’s whatever you’re comfortable with,” nuzzling into Mickey’s nose with his own and a sweet smile that Mickey hates how much he fucking loves, “I’m here. No matter what.”

————

And when Mickey wakes up with a heavy ghost sitting on his chest, cutting his breath and rising a layer of sweat over every inch of his skin; he’s there. He’s right there when Mickey’s eyes dart open to the feel of Sandy’s nose in his neck. He’s right there when his head turns, he’s right there with his eyes open and not a single fucking note of shock or surprise or anger or frustration or judgement or any of the shit that could possibly rise when you’re startled awake by a flailing idiot in the middle of the fucking night. He’s just there, and he’s just reaching out to push some of Mickey’s sweaty hair out of his face. And he’s just whispering, “you’re home.” 

And that’s fuckin’ fine. Because he’s not telling him he’s okay. Because he’s not okay. Maybe never will be. But he is home. This is home. Those eyes through the darkness, that hand on his forehead, that hand that drops to find his under the pillow, sliding into his sweaty clammy hand and squeezing; that’s home. The calm, easy, sound of his breathing; that’s home. The damn dog who’s on the bed and shouldn’t be on the damn bed, the damn cat who’s sprawled out by their feet and purring so fucking loud that he can actually hear it over the pounding of his heart in his head; that’s fucking home too.

And when his breath starts to even out. And his heart rate slows. When the sweat is starting to dry and feel cold on his skin. When Ian’s arm slides over his shoulder. When Mickey pushes himself as Ian pulls into his body, into his warmth, into the calm sloshing of his heart against Mickey’s ear, into the gentle rhythm of his breath through Mickey’s damp hair, into the kiss that’s planted on top of his head. His gangly ass arms wrapping tight and his damn bony knee lodging itself between Mickey’s; that’s home. 

And he’s right. The big ginger dope is right. He’s home. The only home he’s ever had. The only one he’s ever wanted.

  



	27. For What?

  


For What?

He’s been standing on the bottom step for about ten minutes now. Unmoving. The damp April air carrying a chill of oncoming rain. Hands in his pockets. Sandy leaning against his right leg. 

Ian stays back. They need this moment in private. Whenever the moment happens. He’ll wait.

Debbie is staying with Chester for the long weekend. The only Gallagher that can be trusted not to burn the apartment down, have sex on their bed, or get stoned and leave the door open. Ian’s kind of really fucking proud of Debbie. Making her own way in a male-dominated workplace. Not just making her way, making waves, making tidal waves. She’s been involved in the women’s nights at the trade school she attended. The nights that exist purely to get more women interested in a stable job that can provide a decent income, traveling opportunities and something better than flipping burgers but without having to get a college degree. The trades are hard fucking work, the working conditions aren’t always the greatest, being knee-deep in industry; but it’s something Debbie is proud of. And that makes Ian proud too. She’s always been a hard worker who was never really interested in the paper and pencil side of schooling. It’s her fit, and she’s great at it. 

It was a fair trade. Debbie gets to stay in a Gallagher-free zone for the weekend and they get to borrow her car. 

Mickey’s taken another step, hand wiping on the leg of his jeans. Ian’s not even sure if he called her. If he warned her they’d be coming. Maybe she’s not even home. How long can two people and a dog stand on someone’s front porch without being noticed? The neighborhood is a little nicer than the Southside, but certainly isn’t the burbs. Detroit, a city of dead or dying industry, the old dinosaur of the automobile industry. Detroit is the American legacy. When a boom town booms, it booms. When the good jobs leave, so does the median money, the working class who pay their taxes and support the school systems. When they leave, there’s nothing left but ghetto and suburbs. The hood rats who can’t pull themselves up by the bootstraps because their bootstraps have been rotten since they were old enough to tie their shoes. Disintegrating at the just the slightest tug. 

And the suburbs. Cookie cutter houses and cookie cutter lives where the rich people are so bored they create their own problems. Just to have something to do. 

Corrupt politicians. 

One more step and a drop of rain splatters against the dark blue of his t-shirt. Sandy’s nose nudges into his hand and he’s at the front door. FUCK rising to knock. Instead it lingers. Still, unmoving in the air. Wondering if he has time to turn and leave. If he can still get out of this. This thing he needs but doesn’t want to face. This empty place left in his soul from an incident he had no control over but will never stop feeling guilty about.

Ian watches all the breath leave his body in a heavy sigh as his hand makes up his mind for him and knocks. 

She has the warmest smile Ian has ever seen in his life. She has no hesitation in wrapping her arms around Mickey. Holding tight as his face is tucked into her shoulder and his shoulders are shaking in her embrace. Her face is turned towards his ear, she’s whispering something that Ian can’t hear over the rain that has started falling, and the space between them. But he feels the release in the air, rolling off Mickey’s shoulders and lowering itself over Ian. 

————

Aretha decided that the three of them were not going to stay in some rat infested motel that accepts pets, when she has a perfectly usable guest room and she accepts pets. She also decided they would eat every single crumb of food she loaded on their plates. And she calls Mickey ‘sweet thing’ and Ian thinks it’s perfect. 

He introduced Ian as his partner. Ian couldn’t stop the ridiculous grin that rose with the overwhelming amount of pride in his chest. 

She has two cats, one of which is not too fond of Sandy. Keeps jumping to a higher position every time she nears, hissing and swatting the air. The other is interested to a point of Sandy getting irritated. The skinny little black cat with green eyes that keeps pawing at Sandy’s legs, batting at her collar and scampering off just to come back and do it again. 

Sandy lets out an audible groan when the cat comes back, resting her chin on Mickey’s thigh and he smiles. Hand caressing the top of her head.

“Houdini, scat,” Aretha taps her rear by her tail, shoeing her away from the irritated dog, “she’ll get used to her by the end of the night. She only acts like she’s never been around a dog before.”

“Why Houdini?” Ian wonders as he watches the slinky little cat dart out of the room again.

“The escape artist. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve found her out roaming the neighborhood. She goes out on a leash with a harness, but the little bugger still finds ways to snake right out of that harness. I swear I could cinch it down so tight she wouldn’t be able to breathe under it, and she’d still find a way out. She’s slowing down in her elder years. How many times Anton had to climb trees after her when he was home on leave,” she smiles, her hand coming down to cover Mickey’s that’s been resting on the table beside his half full plate. Patting it a few times before retracting, “I have peach cobbler for desert. And you’re going to eat it sweet thing, you’re too thin.”

He is. He has been. He’s not gaunt like he was when he first stopped drinking. He’s put a little weight back on in the last handful of weeks, but he’s lacking the softness that Ian always used to love. Without his normal weight, his face is all sharp edges and his ribs are too easy to count. 

————

“Fuck, I’m still full,” he admits when he sits down on the edge of the bed. Taking Sandy’s face in his hands to pull her near. Rubbing his forehead gently against hers. Releasing her with a pat to her ribs and pointing at the corner where her bed has been situated. Her bed that she rarely sleeps in, and isn’t about to now either. Making that clear by snuffing at Mickey’s leg for a moment, lowering herself directly next to his side of the mattress with a heavy sigh, “stubborn shit,” mumbling towards her. He gets up, drags the bed over, pats it authoritatively until she gets up, lays in it, then he drags it right up next to the bed, “if I step on you when I get up to piss, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Situated in Ian’s embrace, lifting his hand to his lips, “thanks for comin’ along firecrotch.”

Pressing his nose as far into the back of Mickey’s neck as physically possible, “thanks for inviting me along.”

“Fuck you. ‘Course I’d invite you along.”

“Then fuck you. ‘Course I’d come,” giving him a tight squeeze until his entire body is up against Ian’s with no room for air. 

————

The sun is shining. The air smells like spring. The crocuses are breaking through the grass at the base of the headstone and Mickey’s hand is shaking when it reaches for the toy car, sun-faded and weather-beaten but still there. He gasps, his legs give out and he lands in a heap on the grass. Face in his hands. 

Fighting with himself to say put, to stay back and allow this moment to happen. Aretha beside him doing the same thing, her hand finds Ian’s wrist, giving it the gentle tug to remove his hand from his pants pocket and lock into hers between them. Her hand is warm and soft, it squeezes in a gentle reassuring squeeze in the exact way Fiona’s always has when Ian is nervous. A mother’s hand. A mother’s comfort.

“I got mad at my boy when he told me he joined. The Marines of all branches. I asked him if he was suicidal. Signing up for the hardest basic training the country has to offer. Signing up at a time when two wars were being fought. Two political wars where the men making the decisions were sitting on their rich white asses in Washington, not knowing a damn thing about the conditions overseas. Not knowing a damn thing about what they were sending our nation’s youth into. For what? I asked him: for what?” her hand squeezes against Ian’s again, “he smiled and he told me ‘Mama, I’ll either die in gang violence or I’ll die in war violence. At least if I die in a war, then I know I stood for something. Even if that something was just the guy next to me. Then that’s all that matters.’,” she wipes a tear off her cheek with her free hand, “he was a stubborn little shit from the day he was born. The Marine Corps gave him the discipline that I couldn’t instill in him. It gave him the brothers that I never did. It gave him the father that he never had. It taught him the true meaning of respect and honor.”

She pauses for a moment, her eyes lingering on Mickey’s form, knelt in the thick grass. He’s wiping his cheeks, U-UP landing on Sandy’s head beside him. Staying there.

“He wouldn’t stop talking about Mick when they completed sniper school. He couldn’t believe that such a little ball of fire could make such a great partner. He was so excited to work with him, said he was by far the best shot in the class. It didn’t take long before the Corps noticed. When they asked him to participate in shooting competitions he declined. Always saying his worth was on the other side of the world. Anton was so in awe of his attitude. He would have followed Mick to another planet if he’d asked him,” her elbow nudges into Ian’s side as a smile rises on her face, “it goes without saying that a lot of us would, doesn’t it?”

He feels a hot flush rise in his cheeks but his eye contact doesn’t falter. Her expression softens more the longer she looks at him, “under that hard shell is one of the best hearts that humankind has to offer this world. You seem like a pretty good one too. You support each other, be the strength when he can’t find his own, be the softness when he’s not asking for it, be the silence when the words are too heavy. You’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. As long as you love each other through the worst of it.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond before she lets go of his hand, makes her way over to Mickey’s side and lowers herself into the grass beside him. 

————

His face is turned towards Ian on the drive back to Chicago. A calm smile every time he looks his way. He should be sleeping. He stayed up late swapping stories with Aretha about her son, looking through photo albums and laughing. They were laughing, Ian could hear it through the vents as he drifted off to sleep, and it was beautiful. 

When she hugged him this morning, it was clear neither of them wanted to let go. But the invitation to stay a weekend whenever they want, and however often they want, has been extended. Ian is certain this time it won’t take him two years to come back. 

His left hand, his gorgeous calloused hand that Ian loves the feel of, reaching across the center console to rest on Ian’s leg. When he glances down at it, he takes a moment to picture a wedding band on that finger. Grinning to himself at the giddiness that rises with the image. 

It’s too soon. It’s much too soon. But someday. 

“The fuck you smilin’ about firecrotch?”

Dropping his hand from the wheel to squeeze Mickey’s tight, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss against, “just thinking,” admitting into the comfort of his touch.

His eyebrows are darted up, “about?”

The damn grin will not leave Ian’s face, and he can barely focus on driving when he can feel Mickey’s eyes on him, “nothing important.”

A sly smile playing at the corners of his pretty mouth, “road head?”

“That wasn’t it. But it is now.”

He shrugs, hand sliding up Ian’s thigh, “I ain’t got much else to do.”

  



	28. Who Needs Two Eyes Anyway?

  


Who Needs Two Eyes Anyway?

“Can I pet her?” the little girl is about ten, she’s skinny and bald. But she’s been sliding her way closer to Sandy since Mickey sat down on the park bench. Her big brown eyes keep darting towards her, flitting across Mickey’s face, and then dropping to the ground.

“Sure thing kid.”

As soon as Sandy sniffs the kid’s hand, she’s on her knees in front of her, sliding both hands over her ears and leaning her face into her shoulder. Sandy does what she’s always done when someone needs her, sits strong and steady with her chin resting on the little girl’s head. 

Mickey sits silently, waiting. The little girl’s shoulders are shaking with tears. A kid, looks like older sister, has caught his eye, scanning the situation for threat level like all Southside kids are trained to do. He nods at her. And she returns to her game of frisbee. 

Okay, Mickey could look like some creepy dude sitting on a bench in the outskirts of a park, watching kids playing on a Saturday morning. But he’s not. He took his dog for a walk and his leg started aching too much to keep moving. Stupid fucking thing. So he sat down. And let some of the early Summer sun seep into his bones, hoping to get his legs back under him before it gets much later and he ends up late to meet Ian after his shift at the library. He’ll walk from there to the liquor store with him, then head back home and wait for the day to be over. 

He sighs, taking a moment to watch a fresh green leaf swaying in the breeze. Her voice is quiet and he didn’t even realize she had leaned out of the dog, “what happened to your eye mister?”

“Explosion. What happened to your hair kid?”

“Chemo. What’s USMC mean?”

“United States Marine Corps. What’s COCO?”

“Camp COCO,” she pulls on her shirt to show the whole thing, “it’s a stupid cancer camp for sick kids and their siblings,” her big eyes roll, “to just get away from it and be a kid,” her fingers are working the curly hair by Sandy’s ear as she’s talking, “like there’s such a thing.”

“Such a thing as?”

“Forgetting all of this,” her free hand slides over her chrome dome.

“Who needs hair anyway?”

She shrugs, her eye contact dropping to the dog again, lingering on her collar, the stupid dog tag that’s actually shaped like dog tags that Debbie got for Sandy. She thought it’d be cute for her to match her owner, and of course since Mickey’s a big fuckin’ softy when it comes to redheads, he put the fuckin’ thing on her collar and faked a believable enough smile.

Her eyes land on his, the thing about kids is, they don’t notice the shit the way adults do. They ask, and they stare a little, but there’s nothing intrusive about it. She smiles finally, “who needs two eyes anyway?”

“Exactly,” he feels himself smile back.

“It’s pretty, you know?”

“What is?”

“Your eye.”

“Thanks kid. You know what’s really pretty?”

“What?”

“Someone who kicks the shit out of cancer.”

A pink blush creeps up her cheeks and she smiles, “I’m working on it.”

“Good.”

“I like your dog.”

“I do too.”

“Mom says we can’t afford a dog. But sometimes people bring their therapy dogs to the hospital.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s like the best part of the whole stupid cancer thing. My favorite, his name was Rudy, he died last fall,” her lip trembles and she leans her face to hide in Sandy’s neck again, “I miss him.”

“How long you been fightin’ cancer?”

Her narrow shoulders shrug, “this is the second round. It came back last summer.”

“You’re a tough kid.”

“When did you get exploded?”

He nearly laughs, but bites it back, “a little over two years ago.”

“How’d you live through an explosion?”

“Bein’ tough I guess.”

Her face tilts, finding Mickey in her line of sight but not leaving Sandy’s warmth just yet, “you have any more scars?”

“Yep.”

“Where?”

He lifts his arm, showing her the shrapnel when he rolls his shirt sleeve, “and my leg.”

She sits back, rolling up her pant legs to show him some massive surgery scars.

“You ever hear of a guy called Khalil Gibran?”

Her face screws up like he just spoke to her in a foreign language.

“Yeah, well neither did I until a few weeks ago,” Ian and his damn library books all over the apartment. Sometimes he brings home poetry. Fuckever, sometimes it’s cool shit, “well he wrote this thing I keep rememberin’ - ‘Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.’,” he waits, letting her think about it for a minute. 

She watches him, her eyes lingering on his bad eye as a smile rises on her face. She’s adorable, “I like it.”

“Me too.”

————

Shit, he’s twenty minutes late. Ian probably lost his mind and panicked when he didn’t show up. Damn it. 

He takes off as quickly as his legs will carry him. Not wanting to, but entering the liquor store anyway, “where’s Ian?”

Some stoner lookin’ kid sittin’ behind the register shrugs, “don’t know. He was supposed to be here like a half hour ago.”

“Shit,” turning back out the door. Damn it, Mickey’ll never forgive himself if he sent Ian on a spiral, Fiona pulled him aside at their last stupid family dinner and talked to him for like a fuckin’ hour about Ian’s diagnosis and what it means for the rest of his life and how important his schedule is and all this fuckin’ shit like Mickey was an idiot who never bothered listening to his boyfriend when he spoke. But he kept his cool, and he listened to all the shit Fiona had to say too. Even though none of it was news. Between Ian and Mandy, Mickey’s heard it all already. Fuckever, his support system is important, Mickey can respect that. Mandy told him about Ian’s fixations usually being on Mickey, even when he wasn’t around, so Mickey being a rock is important. And he fuckin’ knows that anyway. And if he’s capable of being anyone’s rock, it’s Ian’s.

Jesus fuck, if his fuckin’ leg would work right he’d be home by now. Go figure he forgot his fuckin’ phone on the counter and can’t even call the idiot, in hopes he’ll even be able to answer over the panic that probably rose when Mickey didn’t show. Fuck.

He shoves the door open, “Ian?” his shoes are here, “hey, you home?”

Fuck, unhooking Sandy’s leash, the fire escape window is cracked, but not open all the way. Chester is not greeting, so she must be busy. So Ian must be here. Fuck, “Ian! You home?!”

Stepping out of his shoes, trepidation taking over as he walks down the hall. A flash of an image, Ian with his wrists slit bleeding out on the bathroom floor. His breath is cut off in his throat and anymore calling his name seems like wasted breath with a clenching on his guts. 

Peering around the doorway to the bedroom. Nothing. Deep breath. Bathroom door squeaking just slightly as he pushes it open. Nothing. 

What the fuck? Is he hanging from a noose off the fire escape, “Ian!”

The sound of the window opening jolts his senses back to buzzing life and he hustles out to the living room. Stopping dead in his tracks when he lays eyes on the ginger dope and the fire burning in his eyes as they make contact with Mickey’s. Shit. He sets the cat down on the couch and Mickey doesn’t have time to brace for the shove to his chest. Hard, his back contacting the wall, “what the fuck Mick?! Can’t answer your fucking phone?!” his words are all breathy with panic and anger. 

Mickey sighs relief at the response. Instead of thinking he’d been abandoned, spiraling towards thinking he was worthless and unlovable. He worried about Mickey instead. 

He can’t help a smile that starts to rise. To which he receives another shove and that set jaw, a flare up in his green eyes as his hands fist the front of Mickey’s t-shirt, dragging him close to his face, “you have a phone for a fucking reason,” his nose brushes against Mickey’s, “fucking answer it. Put it in your fucking pocket when you leave the house. And answer it when it fucking rings,” at the end of every sentence he shakes Mickey a little.

Mickey’s right hand comes up, covering Ian’s on his shirt and Ian’s tough guy facade breaks on contact, dipping in quickly to press against Mickey’s mouth. Attacking him with his lips, tongue and teeth, so aggressively that Mickey’s head hits the wall behind him a few times. 

————

“Fuck, Gallagher,” gasping for air as his head dips into Ian’s shoulder. The sweating, panting mess they’ve become on the floor of the living room, “I should get you riled up more often.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” his growl isn’t very effective as Mickey slips his fingers through his hair.

“Alright tough guy,” tapping his cheek, shifting his weight, but Ian’s grasp only tightens. Lifting his head to look at his face. Soft, concerned and kind of tired, “I’ll do better with the phone. I just ain’t used to it yet.”

Silence. Calm in his eyes. Open. 

“I mean, it’s not like we carried phones along on deployment. When I got home and was drunk all the time it wasn’t like I was going to start paying for a cell phone plan. Like the whole one person in my life that gave a shit, Mandy, she knew I was unreliable and a huge piece of shit.”

“You weren’t a piece of shit Mick. Just,” he sighs, his hands traveling the length of Mickey’s back, “there’s a learning curve. Every new phase of life has a learning curve.”

“And I’m still learning this dumb cell phone attachment bullshit. Man, all those fuckers who spend their lives with their faces in fuckin’ social media and takin’ selfies and shit. They’re missin’ life.”

“I agree. But,” taking Mickey’s face in his hands, “I’m allowed to worry about you. Though it could all be a avoided by having the cell phone in your pocket so that when I call you to see why you’re late…”

“Then I can tell you why immediately,” his eyes roll, “got it.”

The unspoken can remain unspoken. Ian won’t worry that he’s drunk or high or hanging out under the L again. He won’t worry that his PTSD addled brain has taken over and he’s holding up a bank somewhere. Or shot himself in the damn head. 

“You’re a pain in the ass Gallagher.”

“Am I?” swatting Mickey’s right cheek with a grin, “sounded more like pleasure, but,” tugging Mickey’s body into his arms to roll them both. His damn pelvis is already grinding down, “if you prefer pain…”

  



	29. Fortune Cookie

  


Fortune Cookie

He’s a sweaty, sloppy mess. Hair slicked to his forehead. Body glazed, skin pink. And so fucking gorgeous Ian can’t stop staring. His body, every single thing his body does when they’re fucking is the most incredible thing Ian has ever seen. No matter how many times he sees it. The way his abs flex when his breath gets huffy and short. The way his fingers grasp for something, anything, at the first moment of penetration. And then again when he’s fighting back an orgasm to make it linger, make it last. 

The way his body takes control of the pace, and the depth, and the position no matter what position they’re in. There is not a single position that Ian could narrow it down to favorite. Everything with this guy, every single instance. Every breath. Every touch. Every bead of sweat. Every grunt. Every grind and arch and roll. Every single fucking thing. 

Sure, when he’s bent over something and Ian gets an eye-full of the contact point, that’s pretty cool. But then he’s missing out on the rest of the contact points. He always ends up pulling Mickey to stand up against him, to lean his back against his chest. To get a snout-full of his scent. To run his hands over his chest, down his abdomen, through that patch of strangely soft curly black hair. 

And when he’s riding him. And he gets to watch his abs and his chest and his throat. He gets to watch his cock as he guides it to climax. He gets to hold his hips and pretend that he has any control whatsoever over the pace. He gets to feel Mickey’s hands pressing down on his chest when his thighs get tired. He gets to run his hand over the scars on his right leg, then up his side, over every rib to find the back of his head and pull him down towards his lips. And then he gets the contact of chest on chest and lips on lips. He gets to run his fingers through his hair and feel the breathy moan of his orgasm against his tongue.

When he’s laid back against the pillows and his face is all soft and angelic. He looks like a fucking religious delusion and Ian has to touch him to know he’s real. He gets that gentleness in his eyes and his lips are pursed slightly as he watches Ian lower himself over top of him like a blanket. He gets to feel Mickey’s fingers digging into his shoulder blades, and his legs clamped around his hips. He gets to look at his face, he gets to look in his eyes and see how every single move and every single touch affects him every single time. He gets to kiss him slow and steady. He gets to breathe him. He gets to feel the safety and comfort of being completely enveloped by this man.

Lying on their sides. He gets to jab his knees up tight against the back of Mickey’s. He gets to feel his back close to his heart. His hands, his hands have access to everything. He can smell his hair and kiss his shoulder. He can bury his face in his neck and feel his back start to arch away from him as his hips take the lead. He can lean up on one elbow and kiss a trail over the scars on his side until he meets his arm and neck, and he turns his head to land on his lips. And he can stay that way. He can stay exactly that way as Mickey rocks them both into orgasm with his hand on the back of Ian’s head. 

And fuck, it’s not even dinner time yet. 

“I’m fucking starving,” the first words out of his pretty mouth when the kiss ends.

Ian laughs, keeping his face lingering close, noses together like the spell hasn’t been broken already.

His foot is already planting itself against Ian’s thigh, ready for the push-off, but Ian clamps down on his hip to keep him there for just a moment. For just one more kiss. One more sweet, tender, delicate kiss that turns into a messy sloppy soul devouring kiss as Mickey starts pushing up off the mattress, twisting to face him, sliding away from his pelvis only to turn the rest of the way. Tangled limbs and tongues. Traveling hands and grinding bodies. He might be starving and they might have already gone three full rounds to completion, but there’s still a neediness in the air surrounding them. A need to be in each other’s arms, against each other’s lips, one being. 

————

His head meets the back of the couch when he slurps down the last noodle and lets out a belch, “you get fired yet?”

“No,” plopping his empty take-out box down on the coffee table and settling next to Mickey, “I called in, said it was a sudden digestive issue.”

“That one always works, huh?”

His hand comes to rest on Mickey’s bare thigh. He only made it as far as boxers, and that’s perfectly fine with Ian. 

“‘Less you’re on deployment. Then you just gotta cut out the back of your underwear and keep movin’. I mean, they did warn us not to eat the local cuisine. So it was my own damn fault. But, fuck, a body can only handle so many MREs.”

There’s not really a response in the rolodex of appropriate responses that works for that. So Ian just squeezes his thigh, “gonna eat your fortune cookie?”

“Fuck you think I’m gonna do with it?”

“I mean, I could shove it up your ass and eat it out…”

“It’d get soggy pretty fuckin’ quick with all that jizz you pumped up there. But whatever floats your boat tough guy,” his eyebrow is up as he pops the wrapper on his cookie, calling Ian’s bluff wordlessly as he cracks it with a smirk, “flattery will go far tonight,” reading the fortune, popping half the cookie in his mouth, crunching away for a moment while he eyes Ian, “lookin’ good firecrotch.”

“Wow. That was impressive Mick.”

“Fine. Fuck fortune cookies,” tossing the paper towards the coffee table and popping the other half in his mouth with that fucking gorgeous smirk that Ian will never get tired of. 

————

It doesn’t take long before his head is bobbing with sleep. Finally dipping to the side and meeting Ian’s shoulder with a huffy little protest of air without waking up. Instinctually turning his head, face against that jet black hair, taking a deep breath of it and pulling the blanket off the back of the couch to cover his bare shoulders, “I love you. Every single part of you.”

  



	30. Metal On Metal

  


Metal On Metal

He’s been awake for an hour now. Watching Ian sleep. He’s not sure how the big ginger dope stays so sound asleep when he has an audience, but he does. 

And he’s so beautiful when he’s asleep. Nothin’ stupid coming out of that mouth. 

He watches his fingers slide through his fiery hair. Every strand it’s own unique hue of flame. 

The sun has been slowly lighting up the bedroom around them. The summer breeze lifting the curtains through the open window. Sounds of the city streets creating it’s own music drifting through the air. Sometimes it’s the sound of the city that brings him back here, after a night when his mind is half a world away. Sometimes it’s the sound of Ian’s breathing. Or his gentle embrace. Sometimes it’s Sandy’s wet nose in his palm, or his neck. Sometimes it’s her paw slowly and stubbornly nudging at his hand. And sometimes it’s Chester. Damn obnoxious fucking cat, sitting on his chest with that fuckin’ purr, batting at his cheek. Fucker. 

This morning it was something else. It was the sound of metal on metal in his head. And it wasn’t the spring and clang of a handgun slide. It wasn’t the click and lock of a bolt and lever sniper rifle. It was nothin’ like kitchen noises or the bell over the door of the liquor store. 

It was when Ian’s hand slide into his under the pillow. When even in his deepest levels of sleep, Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand before the sweat could break the surface of his skin. He wrapped his skinny fingers through Mickey’s U-UP and closed them tight around his knuckles. His stupid warm hand took a damn hold of him and yanked him back out of the very beginning of the images that started flashing, like a fuckin’ old ass movie reel. And when his stupid fingers that Mickey loves clamped down on his, the sound it made in his head was a clink. A delicate little clink. 

And now he’s been laying here staring at Ian’s hand. At his left hand. Wondering if there’s such thing as a type of metal that can match the fire in his hair. Or the dewy spring leaf in his eyes. Wondering if the dipshit would even say yes. Wondering if it’s too soon. If there’s still too much walled up between them and around them. If the potential for their disorders to feed off one another could torch every bit of stability they’ve achieved, in just a fuckin’ heartbeat. If it’s better to call it off now, cut their losses and acknowledge that they’ve both learned valuable lessons from one another. That there is such thing as happiness in a boring and stable life. That there is such thing as independence when you still depend so entirely on someone else’s existence. 

When you exist purely in his smile and the tenderness in his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he sighs towards the sleeping dope next to him. 

“Hmm?” not bothering to open his eyes, blindly groping his way over the space between them to burrow his face in Mickey’s abdomen.

“Nothin’ sleepy face,” slipping his fingers through his hair. Deciding there’s no way in hell anything exists with as many incredible hues of fire as his carrot top. Bending himself nearly in half just to press lips against the top of his head. Lingering there for a deep, centering breath, “I love you. Always.”

  



	31. That Day

  


That Day

It took some convincing. To get Mickey to even consider putting on swim trunks, taking off his shirt, and getting in the pool. It took some convincing. But just not that much when Nadiya took his hands in hers and looked up at him. The stare-off only lasted about ten seconds before he was tweaking her nose and smiling a, “sure thing birdie.”

They’ve been avoiding the date. The anniversary. Talking about it. Thinking about it. Knowing it was this day, this hot summer day, this sunny August day ten years ago that changed their lives. All of their lives. In some ways for the better. In a lot of ways for the worse. But somehow, some way, in all the ways this life could have played out; they managed to be together again. Ten years later. 

Ian leans back against the edge of the pool, taking a moment to watch Mickey with his niece. She’s a hippopotamus now, her mouth in the water as she hangs on tight to his outstretched arms, her big blue eyes wide while she blows bubbles in the water. His smile is gorgeous, mouth dipped just under the surface. The reflections dancing across his irises. His beautiful irises. 

He’s been taking Sandy on the rounds. The children’s hospital, veteran’s homes. A couple hours here and there. Turning into more and more time. Ian’s not sure if it’s been more beneficial for Mickey or for the people they’re visiting. It’s given him something to do, made him feel important. Worth something. The woman who runs the program with therapy dogs at the hospital told him she’s been overwhelmed with requests for more Sandy. But she winked at Ian and pointed instead at Mickey when she said it. She also pulled Ian aside and told him about the formal training programs that Mickey and Sandy could attend if they were interested in helping train more dogs for support, therapy, and eventually service. All he would have to do is pass some courses and get himself certified if he wanted to make a paying job out of it.

Ian hasn’t brought it up with him just yet. But he’s pretty sure it won’t take much prodding.

————

By the end of the day, most of it spent in the pool, the traditionally loud Gallagher dinner, they’re sitting outside enjoying the last of the fading daylight. Nadiya’s eyes are fighting to stay open, sitting on Mickey’s lap in a lawn chair. Her head dips and she startles herself awake just long enough to turn her face towards his chest and mumble, “Happy Birthday Uncle Mickey.”

His eyes shoot daggers towards Mandy and she shrugs, stifling a smirk. Ian’s stomach drops, his heart starts beating in his ears. Mickey’s birthday? Today? How the fuck did Ian not know that? And how the fuck did…

His breath shakes as Mickey’s eyes meet his. He gives him a gentle nod, a silent pleading in his expression not to think about it, not to talk about it, not here. FUCK fingers sliding across Nadiya’s back before his arm extends to land them on Ian’s hand with a tight squeeze. 

————

“Mick, I…”

“It’s okay firecrotch,” he takes a seat on Ian’s side of the bed, patting the mattress beside him for Ian to sit down too. When he does, he takes a deep breath, reaching for Ian’s hand and bringing it over to his lap. Locking their fingers together. Mick’s left, Ian’s right, “it only took twenty-eight of ‘em to finally get one right,” his eyes rise slowly, almost shyly. Finally meeting Ian’s gaze only to flit away to his lips, “I don’t care about all the birthday shit. Never did ‘em when we were kids. Not like we had anything to give each other. And we didn’t really get the point of celebrating the beginning of our lives,” he half laughs, “up until today, my best birthday was overseas. Second time I spent a birthday over there. But the first time, no one knew. Second time, fuck, six years ago now, Mac and I were running cover on a special ops mission. Which, are mostly boring as fuck, by the way. Those guys are so good at their jobs, they rarely need the cover. Fuckever, we were bedded down for like six days or some fuck. Mac saved all the fuckin’ Smarties out of his MREs, he drew a fuckin’ birthday cake in the sand and stuck the rolls of Smarties in it like they were candles or some shit. But the fucker was so proud of himself for remembering.”

Ian watches his smile rise, grow, and fade as he’s speaking. The whole while his eyes linger on Ian’s lips. His grip firm, hand warm, “the worst one though. That wasn’t,” his voice falters, not wanting to say it. Knowing he has to, they have to speak of it, they have to use the words, they can’t always just shrug it off as ‘that day’ because in a lifetime of days there will be a million instances of ‘that day’. Eventually it’ll be a coin toss as to what day is ‘that day’ by the time they’ve grown old together and the entirety of their lives is a collection of ‘that day’s. 

“The birthday that my dad ended up dead,” he shrugs. That’s a start, “that wasn’t the worst. The worst was my fifteenth. Mandy got it in her head that she could bake a cake for it. She burned it,” his voice chokes off. His right hand rising to dig into his eyes, “completely charred it really. Enough to fill the kitchen with smoke. But Dad came in the back door right when she was taking it out of the oven, she was laughing at her own stupid mistake. But Dad,” his chest heaves and Sandy nudges hard enough at his leg that his hand drops to her head. 

He takes a moment. Catching his breath, fingers sliding through the dog’s fur, eyes dropping to land on hers. That hand that’s grasping Ian’s has started pulsing against his, a light layer of sweat rising to the surface.

“I always got between him and her when I saw he was comin’ for her. We all did. None of us fuckin’ mattered, but Mandy was the baby and we all protected her. Even though she was always the toughest of us all. She never once, never a single time in her life, cried after Dad hit her.”

Both hands release, palms rising to grind into his eyes, “fuck,” voice shaking, “fuck. I can still see it and hear it. And it’s so fucking vivid in my memory. Of all the fucking things I can’t remember, but that, fuck. He smacked her so fucking hard that her face hit the counter, busted her nose, sprayed blood everywhere. He kept hollering ‘think that’s funny, huh?’ and yanked her back by her hair, got right in her face like he was going to spit on her or bite her or somethin’. I fuckin’ froze,” his breath is all sporadic and each word is coming out like it’s own sentence, “I just froze. Fuck,” his hands remove themselves from his eyes, just to start tapping, palms tapping down on his closed lids, like he can knock the memories loose. 

“Mick,” Ian interrupts, knowing he needs to release the pain, but he’s not going to allow it to happen physically, “take a breath,” touching him will make him twist away, shut down. So he forces himself to sit helplessly, “take a deep breath,” while Sandy rests her head on his thigh and whimpers quietly. The sound of her draws his hand towards her head. The feel of her fur draws his breathing down a notch, “just breathe for a minute,” Ian whispers, taking the chance to slide a hand across his lower back. He doesn’t jerk away. 

He takes a deep breath. It shakes, and he forces out the rest of the words, slowly, methodically, “he stared at her, looked her right in the eye the whole time he pressed her arm against the pan that she just took out of the oven. She had set it on the stove top. He pushed her arm up against the edge of it. ‘Not so funny now, it is?’ he asked her when he let her go. She didn’t move. She watched him walk out. And she didn’t say a fucking word. She didn’t shed a single tear. Fuck, I couldn’t look at her for like a fuckin’ month. And the dumb bitch, thinkin’ it was her fault and she ruined the day, she stole a thing of cupcakes from the grocery store and left ‘em on my bed with a note that said ‘sorry’,” his voice breaks and his head drops, landing on Ian’s shoulder with a strangled sob, “fuck. Fuck, fuck,” through gritted teeth.

Ian twists to wrap his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, rubbing up and down while he waits for him to catch his breath. 

“I fucking hate that guy. He’s been dead for a decade and I still fucking hate him. Almost as much as those fuckers that planted the IEDs. I fucking hate them too. And I hated Mandy so fucking much for still caring,” his voice chokes off again, “until she didn’t. And then I hated her even more because he won. He fucking won when she stopped caring. And I fucking lost because I couldn’t look at her. She was just trying to do something nice, and I couldn’t fucking look at her ‘cause it was my fault she got hurt. And then it all just went from shit to shittier and I was gone and every single fucking time I called her and she answered ‘cause she couldn’t hate me like she should have. The whole fucking reason she ended up in foster care, the whole reason Dad ended up dead, the whole reason she got her nose broken and her arm burned. Yeah, okay, so maybe it wasn’t my fault, but I was still the fucking reason for it,” his hands swat away tears that are soaking through Ian’s t-shirt now. Arms staying folded between their chests, head turning to wipe his nose on Ian’s shirt, “fuck.”

Leaning forward to rest his face against the top of Mickey’s head. Hands flat on his back, feeling every single breath as it starts to even out. When his hand drops, it’s to find Sandy, his voice thick as he praises her gently, “you’re a good girl.”

His entire body weight leaning against Ian, “fuck. I hate having people who care about me. It was easier to be a shithead when no one gave a fuck,” a half laugh escapes him through the heaviness of tears.

Pressing a kiss into his dark hair, “get used to it. We’re not going to stop anytime soon. Probably never. And I have a pretty good feeling that the rest of your birthdays will be a lot easier than any of the previous ones.”

“Fuck it. It ain’t about that shit anyway. I don’t like cake. Ice cream can suck my dick…”

“Or I could.”

“Or you could,” he agrees, arms finally encircling Ian’s chest. 

“Why the hell don’t you like ice cream?”

“It melts,” he responds like Ian is the moron in this equation, feeling his hand rising off his back talking right along with him, and he’s certain his eyebrows are up.

“Alright. Well maybe next year for your birthday we can take Nadiya to a water park or something.”

“Sounds good tough guy,” he sounds exhausted. He’s just released twenty-eight years of birthday memories, of course he’s exhausted. And those were just the cliff’s notes. 

Taking a deep inhale of the scent of him, “fuck, you smell good.”

“Fuck, you’re annoying with all the sniffing,” he pulls out of the embrace quickly, avoiding eye contact while he announces, “I don’t want this to be about my damn birthday anymore. We can make it about somethin’ much better,” he’s laying over the bed, reaching into his side table drawer.

“Of course we can,” hand sliding over one asscheek, leaning down to take a playful nip of the other. Deciding that he’s going to head down to the sex shop tomorrow and grab a set of Ben-Wa beads. Something he should have done ten years ago. 

Rolling under him, Ian doesn’t bother lifting his head, letting his face stay close to his gorgeous cock through his shorts, sliding a hand up the pant leg, “hold on firecrotch, got something for ya.”

Damn it, should have made a trip to the store yesterday. Fucker always beats him to the punch, “oh yeah?” lifting the hem of his shirt just far enough to kiss a trail to his bellybutton.

“Yo dipshit, I’m up here,” thunking something against Ian’s head that sounds hollow and feels like a box of some sort. A very small box. Either the tiniest butt beads on the planet, or he’s entirely wrong about his gift.

Expecting lifted brows and pursed lips in annoyance, he’s shocked to see some uncertainty and nervousness on his face. Taking a deep breath when he smiles a half-assed attempt at cocky, “if there’s anything that can make a birthday worth celebratin’ it’d be if you’d agree to marry me.”

“Fuck,” it breathes out his mouth before he can stop it, a shaky smile rising on his face, “you serious?” as his heart starts pounding in his ears.

“No, I’m fuckin’ kiddin’ man. Bought a fuckin’ ring for…”

He cuts him off by kissing him. Hard and fast. Nothing pretty or romantic about it. Which is just fucking fine with Mickey. It always has been. Attacking Ian back with all the passion and lust to match. And exceed, while Ian presses his body back into the mattress, laying over top of him, only pulling away to get a good eye-full of his gorgeous face when he’s leaned back against the blankets and his features are relaxed. The lingering tearstains still on his cheeks. And damn, with the little bit of red lining his eyes, they’re just that much more magnetic.

“Yeah,” pushing his hair gently away from his forehead, “yeah I think I can do that.”

“I ain’t gettin’ down on one knee or anything queer, so…” now the eyebrows rise.

“So open my own damn ring box, that it? We going to go down the courthouse, rent a couple tuxes, just a couple of old queens?”

“Fuck you. Maybe we will.”

“Maybe I’d fucking love that.”

His rough gentle cheek tap, “I’m sure you would.”

“Yeah,” nabbing the ring box out of his hand, “I would,” he doesn’t want to peel his eyes off Mickey long enough to look at what he picked out.

“So, uh, probably the wrong size. If you hate it, it’s totally cool, we’ll replace it. And I figure engagement rings are queer as fuck so just use that one for a wedding band, huh?”

“Holy fuck Mick.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No,” his face feels like it’s going to bust in half with the smile that’s taken over. Every single word that just came out of his mouth is something Ian never even dreamed of hearing. And this ring that he picked out, it’s incredible, “it’s perfect, you stubborn fuck.”

“It’s like fuckin’ tungsten or some shit. S’posed to be tougher than anything else, you know, so it’ll outlive your finger. And the inlay is like garnet or some shit, I don’t know, bitch at the store called it nebula or some fuck.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like,” turning it to catch different instances of light, watching it reflect off the reds that look like fire, exploding atoms, distant galaxies swirling in the darkest night, “did you pick something out for yourself too, or do I actually have to try topping this?”

“You always top anyway, ain’t a big secret.”

His brows are up, his eyes are glittery, his cheeks are pink, and he’s the most gorgeous thing Ian has ever seen, “maybe not tonight?”

“Hmm?” he looks likes he a million miles away, but he’s gone somewhere beautiful, not the desert overseas, not the bloody body parts buried in rubble, not the hatred in his father’s eyes, not the tears clinging to the rims of his sister’s eyes.

Reaching for him, tenderly guiding his face towards Ian’s, “I’d love to marry you Mick,” whispering before he presses his lips slowly against those perfect ones. They’re warm, soft, and taste like everything Ian wants to taste against his tongue for the rest of his life.

  



	32. Perfect

  


Perfect

“Wow,” he’s pretty much just wrapped his entire self around Mickey and made it impossible for him to move.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” pulling his head down for more kisses. Fuck, this guy can never get enough kisses. Yeah, okay, fuckever, Mickey doesn’t mind givin’ ‘em. Turns out, he doesn’t mind topping either. It’s different, but watching the intensity of what Ian is feeling throughout the entire night, it’s pretty fuckin’ cool. 

————

“So, you, uh,” twisting some hair through his fingers, his cheek is warm against Mickey’s chest. Even with the fan on high and window open, it’s fuckin’ hot in here, but the big dope won’t pry himself loose from Mickey’s sweaty overheated flesh, “you bottom before?”

“Yeah right. Who the hell would I bottom for? Kash? Ned? Fuck, gross,” tilting to press a kiss into Mickey’s skin.

“So juvie… uh, prison, that was…”

“Did I end up someone’s bitch?” his head turns, neck craning to look at Mickey’s face.

“Well, something like that,” he shrugs. Not that he worried about that, but since they’re here and the topic has risen.

“No. Juvie, I don’t know, it was easier to just stay out of it. Keep my nose in my own business and I guess, yeah when I did hook up with a guy and… you were right about the ass beating. But I don’t know, I guess when you spend most of your time behind bars standing on the table in the cafeteria talking to God,” a little blush rises along with a half smile, “maybe I can thank the disorder for making me too crazy to fuck,” his hand slides up Mickey’s side, giving him a little squeeze tighter to Ian’s chest, “spent a lot of time in solitary. And it’s not like guards give a shit about sexuality or whatnot. They just get pissed when you don’t follow the rules and they don’t care if it’s because of the meds or the depression or whatever made me strip in the yard and offer myself to the celestial light,” amusement sparkles across his breathtaking eyes.

Admitting with a half-laugh, “I think I tried to start a cult. Good fuck, I’m glad I only remember bits and pieces of that shit. And honestly, I’m glad it happened behind bars where it wouldn’t become anything more than just some rambling lunatic. End up on fucking social media or something having a bible quoting contest with a priest. Instead I was babbling about Jesus’s love for all of us when I was alone in solitary and talking to a delusion with your eyes,” he shrugs, “if it wasn’t a disorder, it could have been a fun trip.”

“Acid without the Acid?”

“Yeah. Kind of. It just doesn’t go away I guess. Like there’s no locking yourself in the closet until you come down if you get a bad high. But when you do come down, it’s debilitating. Maybe there are some similarities to combat. Like when you’re over there and living off adrenaline, no sleep, and whatever legal speed the government supplies you with. Then you come home and there’s still some snapping and buzzing in your mind but you have nowhere to put it anymore.”

“So you drink yourself stupid,” Mickey sighs, “we sit in Kuwait for a few days after leaving country to debrief, then we have to stay on base stateside to debrief some more. But there ain’t a whole lot of debriefing to be had. We already know what has to stay buried over there, but I’m pretty sure they just want to make sure none of us are going to snap as soon as we’re back in the general public. Make sure we all have time to come down from the rip fuel,” he snorts a laugh, “that shit was no joke. Banned now, but it ain’t like there’s nothing replacin’ it. Expect a two man team to stay sharp for two or more weeks in the field, can’t really do it without uppers.”

It’s easy. It’s easy talking to this idiotic, beautiful, dopey, incredible, annoying, wonderful ginger about all of this shit. It ain’t always easy hearing about it, about what happened behind bars, about how horrible the disorder is for him, adjusting to meds, and the life altering battle he fights every single day to keep himself stable. But he’s brave, and he’s strong. He works hard, sometimes his positivity is annoying as hell, but it’s also admirable as fuck.

“Can I wear it?” a tiny smile is starting to take hold of the corners of his lips that are still all red from making out for like a fuckin’ hour.

“What?”

“My ring.”

“It’s yours, man. Do whatever you want with it.”

“Can I tell people?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

His remaining freckles get drowned by a blush before he hides his face in Mickey’s chest again. Mickey sighs, running his fingers through his hair before groping the bedside table to find the ring. Taking a gentle hold on Ian’s left hand to draw it out from under the pillow. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ian’s head rising to watch the same thing he’s watching. Sliding the metal band over his knuckle, “hey, look at that, it fuckin’ fits.”

“Of course it does,” his grin is impossibly big and impossibly dopey while he stares at it, “it’s perfect.”

Jesus Christ, Mickey never thought he’d be able to feel the heat of a flush on his damn cheeks while he gets lost in the eyes of this ginger idiot that woke him up with a tire iron one day and fucked his brains out. Dumb fucker tryin’ to kiss him, he laughs at the image in his mind. Reaching out to take a tight hold on his chin, guiding him to his meet his lips. Smile pressed against smile. Damn him and his stupid tire iron anyway.

  



	33. Service

  


Service

“It’s a strange thing isn’t it?” she’s the smallest, greyest, boniest, oldest lady Ian has ever seen. And she swims every single morning.

It took some sweet-talking, some assurances that the only other people in the pool during this time slot were the old people who would need their glasses to be able to see Mickey’s marks. But he finally got into the mid-morning swim routine with Ian. Which, of course, makes it harder to concentrate when he keeps seeing Mickey pulling past him in the next lane. His gorgeous flesh reflecting the fluorescent lights through the translucent water. He swims like a damn fish. There’s no effort whatsoever in it. And the calm that overtakes him when he’s sitting on the bench waiting for Ian to finish his laps. His head tipped back against the wall, eyes half shut, feeling the muscles in his body worked and working. The way they’re supposed to. And Sandy, she sits at the edge of the lane, watching his every move until he gets out. Sure, sometimes it’s a little strange to have a dog every single place they go, sometimes they get the sideways glances and the straight out glares from people who don’t think that even a service dog belongs at a place that serves food, or a pool. It never affects Mickey any. 

The old lady is crumpled forward, her hands on her walker, sitting beside Mickey. His head is turned, watching her, waiting for her to continue.

She smiles, patting his hand on top of Sandy’s head, “being thanked for your service. It’s a strange thing to accept, isn’t it?”

He’s seen it. The reaction playing out on Mickey’s face when a stranger sees his tattoo and wants to shake his hand, or nod and give him the ‘thank you for serving’ line. They probably had a family member serve at some point, or maybe they did themselves. The old guys with their USMC hats, the ones that clap his shoulder and say ‘Semper Fi’ are the ones that he knows exactly how to respond to. They’ve been there. 

But the others. He gets a little blankness, a little caught off guard, a tiny blush, and then he shrugs. There’s never a ‘you’re welcome’. In Mickey’s mind, it was never about them. It never will be about them. It was about getting out of the Southside. And then it was about his brothers. It was only about his brothers. And their families. 

And Mickey has no idea how to accept gratitude for something he can’t claim responsibility over. Fuck, Ian wishes he could be proud of himself. Proud of his accomplishments. No matter what they mean behind the ribbons and metals, they’re still worth some damn pride.

He takes a seat silently on Mickey’s blurry side. Barely brushing his arm when leans back. Just enough for Mickey to feel him there, in case he didn’t already, and give his knee a tight squeeze. The tungsten carbide wedding band with a lapis lazuli inlay. Technically, they eloped. Not wanting to make a thing of it. Not wanting the whole pomp and circumstance, or the financial drain. Not wanting a day to dictate the commitment, the rest of their lives. The rest of their lives, that’s the part that matters. 

No tuxes. No Gallaghers. Just the two of them. And Sandy. And Aretha. Ian could hear her through the phone though it was up against Mickey’s ear when he told her they were tying the knot. She hollered a ‘hallelujah’ before she announced she’d be there by the afternoon. And no one, not even Fiona, could get upset about her being the choice for witness. And he’ll never tell, not a soul, but Mandy and Nadiya were there too. What could he do? Toss a coin for which sibling was his witness? No, not when Mandy was the obvious choice, the support, the shoulder to lean on without hesitation, without faltering or flinching throughout the years of their friendship. 

Damn them anyway. As soon as Fiona found out they eloped, she got the whole fucking neighborhood together for a block party to celebrate. But it was okay. Fiona proved just how happy an entire group of people could be over something as common as a marriage. Or maybe it was over the kegs. And the cannabis party favors. Leave it to Lip and Kev to sell marijuana out of an ice cream truck so far into their adulthood. Well, if either of them ever truly achieve adulthood.

Hell yes, Ian took Mickey’s last name. He’s proud as hell to wear the last name on all those commendations, the dog tags, the DD214, all of it. He’s proud as hell to start their own legacy attached to that last name. 

And fuck Frank anyway. Fuck Clayton. The only legacy Frank will ever leave will be his stool at the Alibi and his addict genes. And Clayton? Who the fuck knows? He knew Ian was his and he didn’t give a damn about it, sure Ian was already a teenager by then, but if he wanted to be part of his life, he could have been. 

“My husband served in World War II. They shipped out with a purpose. They knew what they were fighting for and what they were fighting against. They came home to a grateful nation that had banded together to support them, to keep everything running while they were out bleeding and sweating and afraid in a foreign nation. They came home to parades and celebrations.”

Her bent, gnarly fingers are gently patting against his hand while she speaks, “I lost one son in Vietnam. And the other,” she sighs, “he was about as lost as a soul can be that sill lives in a functioning body. They didn’t know who they were fighting or why they were fighting. They met the depths of horror, lost in a jungle halfway around the globe. Then they came home to protests. Make love, not war. As though the drafted masses had the control over the conflict. They were just pawns on the board. Baby killers,” she shakes her head, “war. War means death. It means sacrifice. It means civilians as well as soldiers. War is never fair. It’s never beautiful.”

“And then we had the Gulf War. Short, quick, declared a victory. There was pride in wearing a uniform again. There were celebrations and congratulations. And then it was forgotten,” she sighs, her eyes rise to meet Mickey’s, “September 11th. Afghanistan. Iraq. Two wars at the same time for how many years? Without the support of the rest of the world, without a draft, without knowing who the enemy was or why we were there. Weapons of mass destruction? Terrorists? Protests at the funerals of the men in uniform. Coming home to a nation that doesn’t care. A government that stop-losses and recalls and back-door drafts the willing volunteers, going back again and again until they’re unfit for duty. Using the same body with the same overburdened head for the same job over and over until they can no longer do it. Fighting an enemy who is no more than a ghost. A roadside bomb. The medical advancements that only bring about the prolonged pain of survival. My dear,” she clasps his hand in hers, “someday you will be able to accept the gratitude, someday you will be able to wear the USMC hat and proudly say that you served. Maybe it wasn’t for freedom. Or religion. Or oil. Maybe it started as something simple, just something to do after high school, a way to get out of your hometown, a way to see the world,” her shaky hand rises, reaching for his chin, telling him certainly, “but I hope you know that your service means something. It will always mean something. And you will always have people who are proud of you and grateful for you. Even if you don’t know how to be proud of yourself,” she smiles, her fingers adjusting from his chin to his cheek, wiping both of them with a tender assurance, “thank you for your service dear,” she waits until he half nods, and then she orders, “now help an old lady to her feet.”

“Yes ma’am,” his voice is thick and Ian can’t see his face, but he’s certain there’s a smile on it. And maybe, just maybe a hint of pride in his eyes.

  



	34. What Was The Desert Like?

  


What Was The Desert Like?

“Uncle Mickey,” she sing-songs into the apartment as she pushes the door open. Setting the mail on the end table, bending to untie her shoes. Hearing the jingle of Sandy’s collar and waiting on her knees for the grey-muzzled dog. Nudging her nose into Nadiya’s waiting hands as her entire body wags with her tail.

“Hey Birdie,” his voice sounds from the kitchen of their apartment, “come on in. Hot cocoa?”

“Of course. With…”

“Whipped cream,” he finishes her request, “trying a new chicken chili recipe for dinner.”

“Sounds good,” she responds. Everything he cooks is good. That’s why Fridays are her favorite days. She walks straight from school to her uncles’ place. The building they own with her Aunt Fiona. Who technically isn’t really her aunt, but however it all works anyway, who knows anymore. Like Uncle Mickey says, ‘the whole fuckin’ Southside is your family, don’t matter what you call ‘em’. And half the Southside is owned by that family, ‘cause like Uncle Mickey says ‘we bought ourselves a full time fuckin’ job’.

When she stands up her fingers slide over Chester’s back where she’s standing on the pile of mail. Scratching her ears while her eyes flit over the military dress coat mounted behind glass and displayed on the wall. The medals catch the sunlight spilling in the window. Reflecting on the wall, much to Chester’s delight. 

“How was school?” his face appears from the open doorway. 

“Good,” she sighs, “as good as school can be I guess.”

One more scratching for Chester before she takes the steps down the hallway. Sandy following close behind her. 

“How are new recruits?”

“They ain’t bad,” he leans forward to kiss her forehead, “there’s a dopey ass yellow lab that might need your guidance,” his eyebrows are risen as he looks in her eyes “if you think you can handle the task?”

“I can handle it,” she smiles.

“Thought so,” he tweaks her nose. If anyone else on this Earth tweaked her nose, they’d end up with a black eye. But Uncle Mickey, well, he’s her favorite person ever. 

“Are we taking Sandy to the hospital tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Chip is comin’ this week too.”

“Okay,” she sighs, “Chip’s okay.”

“He’s gettin’ there.”

She watches him walk across the kitchen without the slightest trace of a limp. Mom says when he first came home, he mostly just dragged his right leg behind him. Nadiya doesn’t remember him like that. Her earliest memory of him was riding on his shoulders when they visited him in the desert. The rocks that looked like skyscrapers rising up around them. The weird looking tree things that he said were named Joshua. And his hands, his strong, calloused hands giving reassuring squeezes on her ankles every time he readjusted her on his shoulders. 

“Uncle Mickey?”

“Yah,” he sets the stirring spoon on the counter, comes back over with a mug full of hot cocoa.

“What was the desert like?”

“Which one?”

“All of them?”

He smiles, layering much more whipped cream in her mug than Mom ever would, “hot.”

She rolls her eyes, “helpful. Why’d you live there?”

He pulls a stool out at the counter and motions her to sit down. Taking his own seat around the corner from her. His hand is stroking through Sandy’s fur, “I was in the Marines.”

“Is that what the uniform is from with all the medals?”

“Yep.”

“What are the medals from?”

He sighs, his eyes slowly moving back and forth from her right eye to her left eye. His lips are pressing together for a long time while he watches her. Reaching out to squeeze her arm, he gets up from his stool, wandering out of the kitchen towards the bedrooms. It’s a pretty big apartment, Nadiya even has her own bedroom in it. It’s technically the guest room, but since Uncle Mickey calls it the bird room and it’s got her stuffed killer whale from SeaWorld sitting on the bed, then it’s her room. 

When he comes back, he has a box tucked under his arm. He sets it on the counter in front of her and untucks the corners. It’s a box full of photos and certificates. He has a weird expression on his face when he takes the first stack of photos out. The one on top is him. Back when both his eyes were bright blue. He’s wearing camouflage, a helmet, a rifle leaned against his shoulder. His face is dirty and he’s smiling. Against his other shoulder, a tall guy with a huge warm smile, his arm resting around Uncle Mickey’s shoulders. 

“Who’s that?” she wonders as his finger absently traces over the face in the photo.

“Aretha’s son.”

“She has a son?” Nadiya loves when Aretha visits. She makes the best peach cobbler, and she doesn’t mind it one bit that she has to share the bird room with her when she stays a weekend. She has the best smile and the best singing voice. She tells the funniest jokes and she’s always giving hugs.

“Had,” his smile gets kind of strained for a minute while he watches the picture. Then his eyes rise and linger on hers, “he had her smile. And her sense of humor. He was a brother to me. But sometimes it’s like he’s still around,” he shrugs and reaches out to tweak her nose again. 

His eyes get all watery and his fingers rise to rub into them. Mom always says to stop rubbing and start crying. She slides her fingers over his free hand and he lets out a deep breath, his other hand falls from his eyes to Sandy’s head for a quick scratch. Digging into the box again until he finds what he’s looking for. 

“The desert,” he sighs, turning the photo to show her. It’s her, sitting on his shoulders. The picture is taken from the side. Giant rocks around them in the desert sand, the weird looking Joshuas scattering the background. She’s pointing at something, her face aimed down while his is craned to look back and up at her. He’s smiling, “that’s one of the times you and your mom visited. We camped in Joshua Tree National Park. Your mom was terrified that a rattle snake was going to get you,” he smiles at her and then wonders, “I don’t know why that picture isn’t framed. I kinda like that one.”

“I remember that place.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It was hot.”

“Exactly,” his smile turns into a grin. And it would be impossible not to grin back.

  



	35. Always

  


Always

He could hear them laughing before he even opened the door. He snuck in, undetected by either human. And now he’s standing in the entryway. Chester is nudging against his fingers and he’s sliding them over her back as she turns, back and forth on the end table, crinkling the mail with every step. 

His eyes linger on the Dress Blues. The stack of shiny medals. As he listens. 

It’s probably the only G-rated story he has from the entire eight years he was in the Marines. But it’ll never get old to hear it. And it’ll never get old to hear his laugh when he tells it. Boot camp. Forced hydration. Lights out. No one was allowed to get up. For any reason.

“But I had to piss so bad I could taste it. There was no way in hell I was about to piss my pants. That’s what they wanted. And when you’re out on mission and it’s move-you-die kinda thing, then sure I pissed my pants. But,” he laughs, “laying in a prison-style bunk with a perfectly usable flush toilet right down the hall. Only thing between me and it - a whole class of recruits and a couple DIs. Fuckin’ drill instructors with their damn Smokey Bear hats, they hear everything…”

Ian know his eyes are wide and they’re twinkling as he watches his niece. He hears her giggle and he knows Mickey just tugged her ear, “but they were in the duty station for the night. Right across from the pissers. Door open. Always. Fuck, I’m pretty sure those fuckers sleep in their uniforms. Anyway, I made my move when it had to be made. The guy beneath me, he fuckin’ shook his head and whispered ‘don’t do it’. Fuck that. I slide my little shower shoes on. I make it out, I make it past the door. I make it to the pisser. I piss in the sink so there’s no flushing to be had. And then I fucked up,” he chuckles.

“I turned on the faucet to wash it down the drain. As soon as I heard the DI’s feet hit the floor I took off. Fuckin’ shower shoes flip-floppin’ the whole way down the hall. Fuck, I was terrified. But it was dark in the bunks. Every night, it was like pitch darkness. I knew if I made it back to my bunk, they’d never know. And the only other asshole who knew it was me was my bunkmate - and he wasn’t about to tell a soul - tiny little shithead from California knew I could beat his ass if he ratted me out. Fuckin’ flip-flop, flip-flop across the tiles. Fastest I’ve ever moved in my life. Damn cops got nothin’ on Marine Corps Drill Instructors when it comes to fear level. Fuck.”

“Did you make it?”

Ian can imagine the expression on her face right now. All lit up like every word that comes out of his mouth is the most incredible thing she’s ever heard. Her eyes sparkling and her brow risen, a half smile in awe and wonder before she leans her chin on her hand.

“Barely,” he sighs out a laugh, “the lights came on right after my damn shower shoes landed on the floor and I was flat on my back on my bunk. Pretending to be sound asleep. Backfired though. Whole damn squad had to do extra drill since no one copped to it, and no one ratted me out.”

There’s a moment when silence it the only sound in the apartment, knowing the two of them are lost in each other’s expressions. He doesn’t move yet. Nadiya’s voice is quiet when she wonders, “are you glad you did it?”

“Pissed? Hell yeah.”

“No,” she giggles, “are you glad you joined the Marines?”

His sigh is heavy, it lingers in the air while the question runs circles in his head. Finally he admits, “yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Ian’s breath catches in his throat, eyes watering as they linger on the medals mounted on the dress coat. The medals that were earned with sweat, blood, fear, and pain. The medals that Mickey will always be equally proud of and weighed down by. The things he’s done to survive, the things he’s always done to survive. Sometimes at the cost of others. The other’s whose tallies are forever etched into his ribs to carry with him for the rest of his life. They’ll have a place in his memory and on his flesh. So will the ones he lost in that explosion. His brothers, friends, mentors. They’ll live forever in the shrapnel in his arm, the divot in his leg, the fog in his blind eye, and the ghosts in his clear eye. They’ll live forever in the laughs, the smiles, the missions they shared. They’ll live forever in the barracks in California, in the drill conducted in hundred-plus degree heat, in the weekends spent doing nothing important and everything worth fighting for. They’ll live forever in the stories kept, in the tears shed, in the photos stacked in a box. The corners of it tucked up tight. Stored on a shelf. In the closet. Right above the rest of the uniforms. Pressed; rank, ribbon, and pins displayed exactly the way they’re meant to be. Tucked into plastic. Zipped into a garment bag. 

There, right there where Mickey can unzip the bag, his fingers can slide over the material, his eyes can linger on the dog tags, the ones belonging to the closest brother he’s ever had. Right there where he can touch and remember. Some nights when he doesn’t sleep, when his mind is overrun by his memories. He can stand there, trace his fingers over the metal, over the indentation of his name, blood type, SSN, branch of service, gender, and religion. A life lived and died, summed up and stamped on metal. And remembered. Remembered for so much more. Always.

He hears the jingle of Sandy’s collar as she trots down the hall, finally picking up his scent in the apartment. Her tail waging as wildly as her arthritic hips can muster anymore. The sound of his niece’s voice, calling out happily, “Uncle Ian is home!”

He wipes the lone tear that he never felt escape, with the flick of a finger before his hand slides over the softness of the dog’s head. Leaning down to take a deep inhale of the scent of her as he presses his face into her fur for a brief moment. Immediately when he stands, he gets the hug from Nadiya he’s been waiting all week for. Their Fridays spent together every single week. He overheard Fiona telling V that Nadiya lucked out for a Milkovich. But she didn’t. She’s not a lucky girl. She is a loved girl. She is loved by two of the biggest hearts on this planet, two of the biggest most beautiful hearts on this Earth that deserve every ounce of love they receive back from her. 

And so much more. 

He smiles when his eyes land on Mickey’s face. His gorgeous, perfect face that’s smiling back at him as he nears. The vision completely gone now in his left eye. But it still holds all the promises of life written on a summer sky, the life they get to live together. The one Ian will always cherish. 

His hand rises, sliding across Mickey’s left cheek, his thumb just brushing the edge of that scar that’s become a part of him. A part no different than his black hair, or his blue eyes, or his perfect lips. His perfect lips that are pursed already for an incoming kiss as his face tilts. An incoming kiss that is just a kiss. A kiss that has always been more than a kiss. A kiss that has always been the wildfire burning in Ian’s body. It always will be.

  



End file.
